


in the early morning rain

by matchbox



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Military, Alternate Universe - Space, Alternate Universe - Stargate Atlantis, Fusion, M/M, POV Multiple
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-04-29
Updated: 2014-10-07
Packaged: 2018-01-20 15:10:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 56,178
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1514957
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/matchbox/pseuds/matchbox
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Is this how most of your missions go?” Sidney asks, pushing himself up onto his knees after the Balesh guard shoved him to the dirt floor of the cell. He shrugs his shoulders back, trying to loosen the tension on his bound hands.</p><p>“Almost all,” Patrick nods.</p><p>“<i>Exactly</i> all,” Jonny corrects.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. operation “this will most likely end badly” is a go

**Author's Note:**

> This started over fourteen months ago when matchbox posted her Battlestar Galactica AU and cathedralhearts lamented the lack of SGA AU (at the time). This monster was born. Don’t worry, we won’t get GRRM levels of cray on you.
> 
> Thanks to urrone, vlieger, toomanyhometowns and Alice for donating significant slabs of their time in the beginning to help, of which we're very thankful. If you want to be involved in the remaining parts, please say! 
> 
> This very generally sticks to canon, but a lot of things have changed, and it should probably be treated as more of a fusion piece than anything relating to existing canon. 
> 
> Warnings, key terms (please read if you aren’t familiar with the SGU) and more at the end.

 

“I joined the Marines for idealism and romance,” he says. “The romance comes in because we are a small band of hard motherfuckers, trained to go behind enemy lines against forces twenty or forty times bigger than us. And brother, if that ain’t romantic, I don’t know what is.” - _SGT Rudy Reyes, as quoted by Evan Wright, “Generation Kill”_

* * *

 

The gates are _hands-down_ the best part of this job, at least as far as Patrick’s concerned.

Some of the guys get sick when they travel through the Stargates but Patrick had managed to shake it after the very first time. In the interest of full disclosure, it had been pretty rough; stepping through the event horizon and into the wormhole felt like jumping into the coldest water on Earth and then, when he’d emerged on the other side, everything was tight inside him like all his guts had been pulled out and then put back in the wrong order. That, paired with the crazy lightshow of the wormhole around him -- just best to hold his breath and close his eyes every time he steps through.

Dr. Sharp tells him that’s the most outrageous piece of hack science he’s ever heard, and if anyone knows hack science, it’s Dr. Sharp. But whatever, it works for him.

“Gentlemen, your fearless leader has arrived,” Colonel Burish announces over the PA system when Patrick walks into the gateroom. His team is scattered about, stretching and checking gear before the mission, and only Corporal Saad bothers to look up.

“Sir,” he says, and Patrick gives him a nod. The others might be too jaded to respect his authority, but Saader’s still impressed by him and Patrick’s going to nurture that for as long as possible.

“You can tell he’s in charge because of all that thinning hair he got from worrying about your stupid asses,” Burish continues, apparently unconcerned his musings are being broadcasted.

It would be highly unprofessional to flip him off in front of all the people watching from the control room, so Patrick restrains himself. Bur is pretty brave when he gets to stand behind all that bulletproof glass and the steel blast doors, though. And his hair is not _thinning_ , Jesus. The high-and-tight probably isn’t doing him any favors, but neither is pushing thirty. It’s not like he really has to worry about appearances when he spends all day locked in a top secret military installation anyway.

“Come down here and say that,” Patrick says instead, and he cranes his head back to look through the observation window about twenty feet above him. Bur waves down at him.

“Can’t,” Bur’s voice echoes through the emptiness of the gateroom. “No one but off-world team members are allowed in the gateroom when dialing a planet’s address.”

“It’s not even dangerous,” Patrick scoffs. “We’re just providing some security for the Jaffa High Council meeting.”

The room flashes brilliant blue for a moment when the gate locks onto the address and establishes the wormhole, and then the shimmering blue surface of the event horizon settles inside the circle of the gate.

“Don’t get shot!” are Burish’s last words of encouragement. Patrick rolls his eyes.

“Same goes to you,” he calls out, and steps through the gate.

 

* * *

 

 Captain Sam Gagner hears the base klaxons go off and knows, _just fucking knows_ , that they’re for the SG-3 gate team. He learned years ago at the Academy that every sinking feeling he has is somehow related to Kaner, so he books it to the control room.

“What happened?” he demands when he runs into Master Sergeant Johnson coming down the hallway outside the infirmary. He’s moving swiftly but is covered in kind of a lot of blood.

“Lucian Alliance infiltrated the meeting,” Johnson says. “We handled it.”

Sam has been under the mountain long enough to know that there are varying definitions for ‘handled it’, and almost none of them are good.

“The major?”

“He’s fine,” Johnson replies. “Excuse me sir, I have to debrief General Landry and SG-1.”

Johnson pushes past him and down towards the senior offices. Sam turns towards the infirmary and braces himself for the worst.

Kaner is pulling a scrub top over his head while Dr. Kesler stands to the side, scribbling on a clipboard. There’s a biohazard trash bag full of bloody fatigues, tied-off and on the floor by the foot of the medical bed.

“Not my blood!” Kaner shouts when he sees Sam, and throws his hand up for a high-five.

Sam rolls his eyes but returns the gesture; they’ve high-fived for way lesser things in the past.

“Just lemme stop back at my quarters and get some real clothes and then we’ll hit the O-Club, yeah?” Kaner says, twisting into his LBV and scooping up his rucksack. It looks pretty ridiculous over his scrubs.

“How about you get some real clothes and hit the debrief with your team?” Sam counters.

“Eh, Jack’s got it.” Kaner shrugs. “As far as they know, I’m still with the doc, being all wounded and stoic.”

Sam gives him a look. Kaner sighs.

“Fine, but drinks after?”

“I’m on duty until 2200,” Sam says. “I’ll see you then.”

 

* * *

 

 The O-Club under Cheyenne Mountain is more like a glorified rec room with a minibar than an actual watering hole, but they’ve all been locked down here so long that none of them really care. Even Patrick, although he does miss the days when the uniform and the medals would get him some kind of play. The ladies down here -- scientists and soldiers alike -- are pretty hard to impress.

“What do you think?” he asks when Gags sits across from him at their high top table. He jerks his head towards Colonel Kovalchuk and a couple of the other Russians clustered around the bar.

“I dunno,” Gags says, shrugging. “Could be okay.”

“My team has to be a well-oiled machine. New people are too unpredictable.”

“Your team has caused the destruction of three planets,” Gags reminds him. “Could a little more unpredictability really hurt?”

“Well, whatever. I don’t like being strong-armed into bringing untested people off-world. They’re basically telling us what to do with the gate.”

“Hey, at least Kovalchuk’s been under the mountain for a few years, right?” Gags asks.

“Kovalchuk’s got his own team,” Patrick points out. “We’re gonna get one of the new guys.” He slides off of his chair and motions towards the bar. Sam nods.

Their gate -- well, it’s not even their gate, if they really get down to semantics. The original one, the one found in Giza, had been dropped into the ocean during SG-1’s first big round of planet-saving heroics. They’d set up the one from beneath Antarctica, only to kiss it goodbye when Anubis and the Goa'uld made a final bid to invade Earth.

Then the Russians revealed that they’d fished out the original gate and it was now their property, _finders keepers losers weepers_ -style, and now everything in Stargate Command is all about G8 cooperation with a distinctly Russian flavor. It’s not so bad; Patrick discovered perogies and the real Winnie The Pooh, black all over and _Ren and Stimpy_ levels of disturbing. Then again, he’s almost always down for a weird time so it’s worked out okay.

“So what happened back there?” Gags asks when Patrick drops another beer onto the table in front of him, tearing his gaze away from the gaggle of Russians.

“What do you mean?”

“You weren’t scheduled to return until 0600 day after tomorrow,” Gags says. “I heard that O’Neill didn’t want to open the shield even after you sent the right ID code because he didn’t think things could have gone that wrong that fast.”

“Trap,” Patrick sighs. “Lucian Alliance had an inside guy. I guess they wanted to take out the top Jaffa leaders before a stable government is formed. We were ambushed, outnumbered -- we almost lost Frolik and Bolland coming back. They’re getting bolder now, attacking us so openly like this. Now that Anubis is gone, there’s a power vacuum they have to fill. This is gonna keep happening until someone establishes themselves.”

Gags claps a hand on his shoulder. “Hey, at least you didn’t give Burish the satisfaction of seeing you shot.”

Patrick grunts something in the affirmative, and Gags bites his lip. “Plus, I have some gossip you’re gonna want to hear.”

“Really?” Patrick perks up a little, and Gags nods. Even way back at the Academy when they were small fish in a smaller pond, Patrick loved good gossip. He leans in closer and so does Gags.

“Yeah. The Atlantis Program was greenlit this morning. They’ve found the home of the Ancients, and given the frequency of attacks on SGC personnel, and missions being disrupted by the System Lords and the Alliance, we’re going to need the full power of the Ancient weapons we found under Antarctica. And that means Zero Point Modules.”

“Holy fuck,” Patrick breathes. He scrubs a hand over his face. “And they’re really going through with it this time?”

“That’s what I hear,” Gags nods. For years, SGC hasn’t been able to find a Senator to back them up for approval because it’s essentially a million-dollar suicide mission. “But General O’Neill, General Sam Carter and General Lemieux made them understand that we don't have a choice anymore, and we finally got the go-ahead.”

“So we’re finally going to the Pegasus galaxy?” Patrick asks.

Gags grins. “Yep. Pegasus, the home of the Ancients, builders of the Stargates. Bet you never thought it’d be like this when you left the Academy, eh?”

Patrick nods and runs his hand through his blonde curls; even closely shorn, he can’t seem to escape them.

“Nope. Definitely not one of the things the Air Force bothers to teach you about,” he says and Gags raises his bottle. “Be nice to get away from the Goa’uld and System Lords and all this shit for a while, though. We could get the old crew back together, go kick some alien ass for a couple of months while we scrounge up some big batteries for the gate.”

“No way are they _ever_ letting us back together,” Gags laughs. “Pretty sure I got more black marks against my name when I was running with you than ever before or after. You’re bad news, Major Kane.”

Patrick rolls his eyes. “Yeah, sounds about right.”

 

* * *

 

 Colonel Keith is back under Cheyenne Mountain after spending some time in Washington with Dr. Brent Seabrook, forming part of a panel trying to convince the new President that no, pulling funding from the International Oversight Advisory is _not_ the best way to establish yourself as top dog. Neither of them have seen Colonels O’Neill or Sam Carter since returning to Colorado, even though Duncan walked into his office this morning to an email from O'Neill -- _Don't leave without seeing me - EOM_ \-- and has been dutifully waiting in his office ever since.

It has given him some time to get a few important things done, though, like clear out his junk mail folder and throw away some MREs that have been sitting there for so long they’ve actually _expired_. It’s also given him time to think about how weird it is that he hasn’t seen Brent since high school but has managed to run into him under a top secret military base.

He’s working on launching a few pencils into the fireproof ceiling tiles when Carter, O'Neill and Brent barge in and shut the door. Brent sinks into a folding chair in the corner while the generals pace in front of Duncan’s desk.

“What do you know about the Atlantis program?” Carter asks them, straight off the bat.

“Not a lot,” Duncan admits. Brent shrugs, nodding -- the only two who really know everything happening under the Mountain are Carter and O’Neill.

“Well, we’ve finally started making real progress in annihilating the Goa’uld. The defeat of Anubis has left a power vacuum that the remaining Goa’uld are struggling to fill. So far, the threat of Ancient technology on Earth seems to be keeping them in line, but if there’s one thing the Goa’uld love to do, it’s turn on each other,” Carter says in a rush.

O’Neill regards them for a moment before taking up where she left off.

“All of this is related to the Atlantis program. One thing the Mountain is great for is the rumour mill, but this time it’s right,” he says, picking up an acrylic mould of the Chicago skyline that serves as a paperweight on Duncan’s desk. “The program is going ahead, and we want you leading it. You have the military background to make sure no one dies by accident, and Dr. Seabrook has the diplomatic and security background to make sure no one dies on purpose.”

There’s an awkward pause as O’Neill and Carter just stare. Duncan isn’t really sure whether they want the contemplation done _now_ , or what. “Um, right. Well, we’re gonna need a minute to think about this,” he says, and they nod and stand up.

“This is probably gonna be a one-way mission, but it’s happening,” O’Neill says, “with or without you both. Personally, I’d prefer if it was ‘with’. You two are the only ones with the experience to bring our people back alive but without your heads shoved so far up your asses.”

He gives a small shrug and follows Carter out. As soon as they’re gone, Brent sags in his seat and Duncan shifts in his.

“Are we doing this?” Duncan asks, rubbing his face and trying to smooth down his unruly curls. Brent pushes back from the desk and stands up, tucking his creased shirt into his pants.

“Yeah,” Brent nods. “Could you honestly say no, knowing this was happening? We worked this hard and got this far because we want to help people, and this is how we do it. And whether we make it back or not, it’s gotta be better than sitting through another round of IOA Executive Committee meetings.”

“We knew it was gonna be dangerous when we got involved in the SGC and their business. I mean... the lost city of _Atlantis_ ,” Duncan says, and Brent breaks into his first smile since they landed.

“We’re doing this, then.”

Duncan holds out a hand, and Brent rolls his eyes but lines up for a fist bump.

 

* * *

  

“Glad to have you all onboard,” Landry says, motioning for everyone to sit as they file into a large boardroom for the personnel shortlisting meeting and take their seats. “Can’t imagine anyone else for the job.”

“We’ve narrowed the field of personnel down to several prospects, but that’s the point of this meeting. Now you’ve decided to commit, we need your input on several potentials,” Carter adds.

“These two on my left are Lieutenant Colonel Alexander Ovechkin and Lieutenant Evgeni Malkin. They’re here to represent Russian interests at the SGC. Colonel Ovechkin is our liaison with the Russian military, and Lieutenant Malkin will be accompanying you on the flagship Atlantis team.” Carter gestures to the two uniformed men sitting next to her.

“Hello,” they say in unison. Duncan stares at Ovechkin. His face is familiar but Duncan can’t place it, and in trying he misses Carter introducing the IOA representative. He starts paying attention again as Carter reintroduces Jackson and Landry.

“Loaded into your tablets are candidates for the head of military operations, and the heads of science and engineering.”

Duncan snorts out loud when the first application swipes onto his screen.

“Seriously? Is this the kid I read in the reports from this morning, with half the gate team that almost died coming back from that mission?” Duncan asks.

“Let me assure you, Major Kane is extremely qualified--”

“How old is he?” Brent interrupts, squinting at the screen. Carter points a finger at the bio data on the top, next to his picture. He’s smirking at the camera and his hair isn’t reg length. Duncan can almost _feel_ the authority issues rolling from the screen.

“As I was saying, Major Kane has been an extremely valuable asset in all his field training. He’s an exceptional pilot, graduated from the Air Force Academy, and he was the first in his year to fly solo. He did a tour in Iraq but was pulled from active duty when we discovered he was an Ancient gene carrier. He’s been working for Stargate Command as a gate team leader ever since.”

“I see he’s had a lot of insubordination charges during his time at the Academy and a couple from SGC commanders as well?” Brent says. Duncan scrolls down and sure enough, Kane’s been written up several times.

Carter shares a look with O’Neill, who takes over. “Kane had some youthful indiscretions while he was at the Academy, but he learned some hard lessons in the field. You know how it goes.”

“Look,” Carter interjects. “He’s just had his 27th birthday and spent it on an off-world mission as the team leader of SG-3. Everyone has bad missions, but the guys love him and he’s solid. He’s got experience, he’s extremely familiar with Ancient technology and has some of the strongest Ancient genes in anybody we’ve seen. He’s a fine candidate and we’d be remiss to overlook him.”

“I want to meet him first,” Duncan says, and Brent nods. Carter sighs but her shoulders slump, so Duncan figures that’s enough of a win for them.

 

* * *

 

By the time they reach the last applicant for the head of the Science division, Brent feels exhausted -- like he’s probably developing some form of office-related claustrophobia. He hasn’t had a shower in thirty-plus hours nor seen sunlight for most of that, and as much as he appreciates Duncs as a human being and co-head of a mission to the home of the Ancients, he can’t wait to escape.

“The last candidate is Dr. Jonathan Toews,” Carter announces. “He’s six months older than Major Kane and is from Winnipeg, Canada. He’s been with SGC for the past five years, helping us with breakthroughs regarding Ancient technology and working closely with myself and Dr. Jackson. He holds a doctorate in theoretical physics and spent a few years researching at MIT. He’s also got several degrees in engineering and quantum physics... and a Bachelors in classics that he’ll finish in a month. He’s also a member of Mensa,” Carter finishes.

Duncan clears his throat, flicking his pen around in circles.

“He sounds like a smart guy,” the IOA representative deadpans. His name is Woolsey, he’s balding and looks nervous, but the thin smile on his face makes Brent think he probably rocked out hard in the 60’s.

“He’s a genius, yes. He has one of the highest IQs I’ve ever seen, and his intelligence is highly regarded by all his colleagues and the scientific community. He would be an unbelievable asset to have on this expedition,” Carter says, glancing at O’Neill, who makes a pained expression.

“What?” Brent asks.

O’Neill leans further back in his chair. “Typical of his age and intellect, he doesn’t exactly  _play well_ with others. We’ve had issues with his bedside manner, so to speak. He’s been made aware that he needs to not be--”

“--such a _dick_ , I believe is the term?” Dr. Jackson cuts in.

“He assures me that he’s working on it,” O’Neill finishes. “People seem willing to put up with it because of the work he does.”

“So, let’s interview Major Kane and Captain Richards for us, and Dr. Toews, Dr. Doan and Dr. Sharp for the science division,” O’Neill proposes to the room at large. Nobody protests, so Carter, Dr. Jackson and the Russians stand up and shake hands with Brent and Duncan before leaving the boardroom. They try to follow, but O’Neill pushes them back.

“Not so fast, you two. We need you to sign all these wonderful non-disclosure agreements and contracts. My friend Mr. Woolsey will keep you company, because he’s considerate like that. You’ve been directly appointed by the IOA, not Stargate Command, so get used to addressing all your reports to him. I’ll see you at 0900 tomorrow for the first interviews.”

Brent and Duncan sag back into their chairs as O’Neill leaves, and Woolsey pushes thick stacks of paper at them, with a black pen on the top of each pile.

“So, gentlemen. Welcome to the Atlantis program, and congratulations on being selected to be the IOA representatives on this expedition...”

 

* * *

 

The first time Duncan actually meets Major Kane, the guy’s sitting mostly upright in the infirmary while Dr. Bieksa takes his vitals and Dr. Kesler lurks just behind him.

Kane’s also sneezing glitter around the room rather violently.

“What the hell happened to you?” Duncan asks.

“Doctor-patient confidentiality!” Kane snaps at the same time that Dr. Bieksa says gleefully, “He got zapped by the glitter bomb!”

“All the botanists told him to leave it alone,” Bieksa adds while Kane sulks and sneezes out another cloud of shiny purple.

“Isn’t this whole government-sponsored money sinkhole supposed to be in the name of exploration?” Kane says. “I was just doing my part.”

“You’re gonna be fine,” Bieksa announces, slapping Kane’s hand away from the blood pressure cuff on his arm. “But I’m not clearing you for duty until I’m convinced you’re not melting on the inside or whatever.”

“Well I’m not staying here with you and that creeper,” Kane insists. Kesler frowns but doesn’t say anything.

“I’ll watch him,” Duncan volunteers, and Bieksa’s eyebrows shoot up but he nods.

“You’re not going to murder me and leave my body in a closet, are you?” Kane asks, after Duncan fills out his discharge paperwork and they’re walking to the mess.

“Have senior officers tried that before?” Duncan raises an eyebrow.

“They probably wanted to,” Kane admits.

Duncan holds the double doors of the mess open and Kane shuffles through, taking a place at the end of the chow line. Duncan follows, sliding trays in front of both of them. He grabs a coffee and some scrambled eggs for himself, deciding not to brave the uneven heat of the conveyor-belt toaster in the corner. Kane piles his tray with four bowls of Jell-O.

“So tell me about the glitter bomb,” Duncan begins when they’re seated at one of the cafeteria tables in the far corner, as far away from prying ears as they can get.

“It’s found on most of the unoccupied P3X planets and I only touched it because I didn’t know it would explode,” Kane says, lip curling up. “The botanists thought it was funny.”

“Because it was a prank, or because it was a prank on you?” Duncan asks. 

“I might have left Dr. Parrish by himself on P3X-592, but only because one of my archeologists got trapped in a Gou’auld device and I had to book it back with Dr. Briere to deactivate it,” Kane says. “I came back to get him, though! Was only gone five, six hours tops.”

“The scientists get weird about being left alone on hostile alien worlds,” Duncan says, and Kane scoffs.

“Why did you check me out of the infirmary?” Kane asks, eyes focusing again and turning his attention back to Duncan.

“I’d like to talk to you about a project I’m working on,” Duncan says, pulling a tablet out of his briefcase. “You might have heard of it.”

“There isn’t much around here I don’t hear about,” Kane shrugs, leaning forward to see the screen. The velcro of the SG patches on his arms crinkle with the movement.

“We’re going to Atlantis,” Duncan says. There’s no use being coy about it; rumors have been flying under the Mountain ever since the Battle of Antarctica and he’s never been one to play games with subordinates.

“When?” Kane’s eyebrows shoot up. ‘’We’ve been talking about it, you know, the SG team leaders. But we thought it was months away.”

“It’s now,” Duncan says, spinning the tablet around. Kane starts reading one of the four information briefings. There are still three decision briefings and a warning order to go. “Only a handful of people know.”

“Why-- why are you telling me this?” Kane asks, moving on to skim an update on the TLPs.

“Is this something you’d be interested in?” Duncan asks, instead of answering. Kane looks up.

“Yeah, of course. I’ve got a lot of off-world experience.” His fingers brush against a shallow scar running the length of his jaw on his right side; it seems like an unconscious gesture.

“We’re also interested in your background in astrophysics.”

“Sir, even _I’m_ not interested in my background in astrophysics,” Kane grins.

“Your grades tell a different story.” Duncan takes out another tablet with Kane’s packet pulled up. He tilts it so that Kane can easily see the thumbnail photo of himself.

“You have all my Academy stuff on there?”

“Sure do. All of it,” Duncan intones. “Tell me about Captain Gagner.”

Kane shrugs, looking out over the rest of the mess. There’s a group of Marines against the far wall, getting loud and making big gestures. Everyone else is mostly scientists eating alone.

“He’s a friend. We were both picked for the Stargate Program right out of the Academy.”

“He’s a distinguished team leader,” Duncan elaborates. “Good stuff in his cadet file.”

“Not mine, I bet,” Kane says softly, before perking up and leaning back over the table to see the other tablet. “Hey, do they have a final total for how many Hours I walked?”

“Yeah, a lot.” Duncan gets the creeping feeling that Kane’s proud of how many demerits are in his file. “Classmates testified that you always had the required Knowledge. Why wouldn’t you go along with the tradition? Problems with superiors?”

“You know the type, sir,” Kane dismisses. “Everyone there takes themselves so seriously.”

“You don’t think this is serious?” Duncan cocks an eyebrow.

“It’s important,” Kane retorts.

“The distinction between the two being...?”

“It’s too important to be left to someone who would treat it serious.”

Duncan leans back. “Sounds like you have an idea of how this should be run.”

“Well I definitely have some ideas about how it _shouldn’t_ be run,” Kane says. He slumps in his chair and scrapes his spoon over the empty bottom of his last bowl of Jell-O.

“What do you think about someone like Captain Michael Richards?” Duncan tries another tactic. There’s a well-established code of silence amongst the military guys, no matter the branch; Richards’s fondness for booze and both other captains and their wives is well known, but Duncan is curious if Kane will talk, even informally.

Kane suddenly looks guarded. “Richie’s a good guy.”

“I’m hearing a lot in what you’re not saying, Major,” Duncan says flatly.

“There’s nothing to hear,” Kane says, “and I’m definitely not saying that Richie shouldn’t be a part of this.”

“You don’t have to. There are a couple of incident reports that say it.” Kane’s back straightens as he sits up straighter, some of that ease gone from his posture.

“Then you don’t need my opinion.”

“I want it, though,” Duncan says, careful to keep his tone even.

“Richie’s a good guy,” Kane repeats. “That’s my official comment.”

“Then that’s what I believe,” Duncan says. Kane’s still looking at him with suspicion, so Duncan decides to change the subject. He’s passed the test well enough, anyway.

“I wrote the WARNO, but you should be the first to read it,” Duncan says. “I want you to be the one sending it out to our team.”

Kane’s eyes widen. “Really? But what about all that, with Richie?”

“Captain Richards is good, but I don't know if he's the right guy for this particular job. Just think about it.” Duncan nods, and gathers his things to leave.

 

* * *

 

While Duncan searches out Major Kane, Brent goes looking for Dr. Toews but can’t seem to pin him down. He’s always ‘just left’, somehow.

“He’s helping Dr. Briere and Dr. Giroux after they got trapped in those marriage bracelets from P3X-184,” Specialist Schenn says when Brent flags him down in the control room.

“I think, lab?” Yakupov mutters in the mess hall. “Psychic travel stones.”

“I think the psychic traveling stones trapped him in an alternate reality. He’s been in the infirmary for a few hours,” Captain Gagner says in the gym, not pausing from his work-out.

“He finally shook it off,” Dr. Bieksa confirms later. “After he tried to stab me with his belt buckle. Have you tried the labs?”

And the labs are, eventually, where Brent finds him.

“Nail?” He hears Toews call as he steps into the darkened lab. There’s a soft orange glow from one corner. “Nail, did you get the naqua-- _don’t touch that!_ ”

A head shoots up from behind a large desk. Brent drags his hand back from where he had been about to run his fingers over the smoothest, most perfect sphere he’s ever seen. It’s on a counter next to him. Toews pushes up his welders mask and the yellow light casts spooky shadows on his face. 

“That’s from P3X-994 and it might have driven Dr. O’Marra insane,” Toews says. Then he sniffs a little. “He got better. But don’t touch it.”

Brent drops his hand back to his side.

“I sent my assistant out a while ago for naquadah and I thought you were him but-- you’re Dr. Seabrook.”

Toews tugs off the thick glove he’s wearing and extends his hand. Brent hesitates.

“I’m not going to irradiate you.” Toews rolls his eyes. “The ZPMs are stable enough, and this one’s mostly empty.”

“How did you know who I am?” Brent asks, accepting the handshake.

Toews shrugs. “I had a free afternoon, so I memorized everyone’s details from the SGC database. You know, something fun.”

Right.

“Are you here to talk to me about Atlantis?” Toews asks, stepping around what Brent can now see is not a desk but some kind of lead-lined box.

“How do you know about Atlantis?” Brent says, distracted.

“There isn’t a lot that goes on under this mountain I don’t know about.” Toews smirks, and Brent can understand where the other guys are coming from when ‘abrasive’ is at the top of all Toews’ evaluation reports. “Plus, I spent a lot of time with Dr. Jackson and that guy _pines_ for Atlantis. It’s embarrassing.”

“I seem to remember reading a mission report in which _you_ pined pretty pathetically for Corporal Oshie for a while after eating some suspicious bread on an away mission,” Brent reminds him, and Toews flushes.

“That was different. That was alien physiology and-- and it was like, my second time off-world.”

“You don’t have a lot of off-world experience,” Brent notes.

“I’m most useful in the lab.” Toews shrugs as he fiddles with a pair of forceps on the lab table near him. “Play to your strengths. We can’t all be out there, gating into black holes and disrupting native civilizations.”

“We help a lot more than we hurt,” Brent says calmly. “Without us, the Jaffa wouldn’t be free of the Goa’uld. The Replicators would have overrun the galaxy. And there wouldn’t be that video of Major Shaw  shitfaced on ceremonial wine and doing some kind of flashdance after the Nirogi peace negotiations.”

Toews smirks. “I’ve been petitioning for months to have that declassified, everyone needs to see it.”

“You could see some of it in person if you came to Atlantis,” Seabrook suggests.

Toews hesitates, smile fading. “I don’t know. I’m in the middle of a lot of projects here.”

Brent believes him; he sees three Toughbooks stacked on Toews’s desk and the lab is cluttered with projects in mid-stride. There’s an empty metal shell the shape of an egg but the size of a small child rolled into the far corner, there’s something with tubes or hoses or-- Jesus, are those _vines?_ \-- by the door and it might have moved since Brent walked in. And then there’s the dry-erase board that takes up all of the wall behind the desk, covered in bizarre equations and symbols. Brent’s pretty sure that one smudge to a variable could set human advancement back at least a decade.

“Whatever you’re working on, this is bigger,” Brent assures him. Toews looks up, mouth pinched. He reaches over to rest his hand on a spiral-bound notebook.

“This should contain the way to get SG-10 home from that planet being swallowed by the black hole. That’s a hell of a way to die. You _sure_ this is more important?”

“Greater good, Jonathan.” Brent shakes his head. “There are billions of people on this planet and billions more in the galaxy. The only thing holding the System Lords back is the idea that Ancient weapons destroyed Anubis and Ancient weapons will destroy them. What if they challenge us and we don’t have a ZPM?”

“There’s always another way,” Toews stresses. He pushes up from his perch on the desk and walks back over to the ZPM in the large box, tugging on the heavy gloves again.

“We need the power, and we need whatever Ancient tech we can find,” Brent continues. “We’re the only thing keeping peace in this galaxy.”

“And we’re doing a _super_  job,” Toews says with faux enthusiasm, and flips his welding helmet back down. Brent waits, in case there’s something else coming, but nothing does.

“I wouldn’t be here if we didn’t need you,” Brent says. “This isn’t screwing around with a Goa’uld healing device. This is the entire galaxy.”

Toews doesn’t even look up, and Brent leaves soon after.

But the next morning, Brent stumbles into his office -- Dr. Hossa had been kind enough to let him sleep in his unoccupied on-base room -- to find a neat stack of NDAs and release forms in the center of his desk, with Toews’ large, jagged signature on the bottom of every page.

 

* * *

  

“Where the fuck did you even find this kid?” Duncan asks as he flips through the file on his tablet. “He’s what, 24?”

“If that,” Brent sighs. He has a tumbler of Islay scotch and six hours before he has to wake up for work, so he’s just staying at the Mountain tonight. Most of the time they just pass out on-base, rather than head back to their apartments.

“He has the stupidest haircut,” Duncan adds, but it sounds tired.

“Everyone looks bad on picture day,” Brent says. Just because Dr. Eberle probably had his mom dress him for picture day doesn’t mean that he’s not a capable researcher and field doctor.

“Are we sure he isn’t just two kids standing on each other’s shoulders and wearing a labcoat?”

“He’s a great doctor and he specializes in genetics,” Brent says. “You know we have trouble getting doctors for off-world missions after what happened to--”

“I know,” Duncan interrupts. He leans forward and puts his head in his hands, rubbing his eyes with the balls of his palms. It’s one of the only reasons they have Eberle at all -- he was one of two doctors who actually returned their call, especially after they established it was for an offworld SGC team. Then Dr. Hjarmalsson knocked up his new bride and it became a pool of one. “I just don’t want medical to be the weak link in all of this. We _need_ more ZPMs to power Earth’s defenses. So many awful things in the galaxy know that we’re here now, we can’t be unprotected.”

He lifts his head up. “Remember when we thought the biggest threats to humanity came from Earth and _didn’t_ want to eat us?”

“We didn’t know how good we had it,” Brent says. He looks at his glass, and pours another two fingers for Duncan.

 

* * *

  

Brent is feeling pretty good about their progress, considering how quickly this mission went from ‘maybe’ to ‘why haven’t you left yet?’, until he stumbles out of his office with only a small hangover to see Major Fleury holding court among a handful of the younger Marines a few doors down.

“No,” Brent announces to the hallway at large. He turns back to his office, where he can probably sleep under his desk for a few more hours until someone really needs him.

“Yes, yes!” Fleury crows, clapping a little. “My favorite doctor!”

He’s really laying it on with the accent, too, the one that he’s probably told these kids helps him get girls - which is a huge lie. Brent should set the record straight for these kids, nothing Flower tells them will help them impress _anyone_. Fleury slings an arm over Brent’s shoulders after he gets close enough and they walk through SGC like that, heading for the mess and garnering more than a few looks. “I hear you’re recruiting for a special mission,” Fleury says.

“I hear that you don’t have clearance to know about any special missions,” Brent reminds him. SGC doesn’t share information on the best of days, not even with the Canadian forces, and this sort of expedition would be secret until the absolute last possible second. There’s no reason for a liason like Major Fleury to know about it, except that Fleury has--

“General Lemieux,” Fleury says, “thought this might be of interest to me.”

“General Lemieux doesn’t have the authority to be assigning people to my missions,” Brent assures him.

 

~

 

General Lemieux assigns Major Fleury to the Atlantis expedition.

“In the name of cooperation with our Canadian brothers,” General Landry says, sounding like he’s reading from a cue card.

“I am firmly against this kind of cooperation and I _am_ our Canadian brothers!” Brent protests.

Landry shrugs.

“The IOA is coming down hard these days. It’s not just military anymore; now every politician with a hint of ambition wants a piece of the Stargate program.”

“Before this, I had a generally positive impression of Lemieux,” Brent says. “But... Flower.”

“He’s an alright guy,” Landry says. “We golf together sometimes.”

“You have hidden depths, sir.”

 

* * *

 

They have firm orders not to leave the Mountain and the disappointing thing is it looks like Ovechkin is actually going to obey them.

“Come on,” Geno wheedles, kicking his feet out and allowing his heels to thump back against the metal frame of Ovechkin’s cot. “You are my guiding light.”

“I am a superior officer,” Ovechkin corrects, giving him a stern look from where he’s sorting through his _Gilmore Girls_ DVDs. “And you only want my company because any indiscretions will fall on me instead.”

“As clever as you are handsome,” Geno tries again.

“Flattery will get you everywhere,” Ovechkin sighs. “Let’s crash the O-Club.”

Geno thinks it’s not so much crashing if you’re officers and you already know somebody in there, but he gets a little thrill out of giving a quick nod to the MP at the door and walking right in to sit with Colonel Kovalchuk.

He’ll concede that he might be looking around a bit too much when Kovalchuk raises an eyebrow.

“We so rarely let him out in public,” Ovechkin explains.

“New officer,” Geno says, and then it’s all he says for a while. There are a handful of women in here, and although most are in civilian clothes their hair is pulled back tight like they wear with fatigues, which means they could probably break him in half. That’s not a tick in the ‘no’ column for him, by any means. There are some ladies too stone-faced to be anything but scientists, which probably means they can spare just enough time to  reject him before returning to their conversation. In the corner by the door there’s a younger guy with pink cheeks and a high-and-tight haircut who could be _exactly_ Geno’s speed, except -- there’s no room for that here, especially as a liaison.

(He thought he was going to die of embarrassment when Colonel Gonchar had huffed and mumbled his way through a ‘You’re not there to get drunk and fuck Americans’ speech the night before they left for Colorado.) So, he just gives the guy a smile, gets a blush in return, and drops it.

Ovechkin and Kovalchuk are talking quietly, even though there aren’t too many Russian speakers around. It’s nice to spend some time with them in a place where he isn't being shot at or being poked and prodded in the name of genetic testing.

So, Geno starts to relax and eventually feels loose enough to blurt out, “I’m really starting to think this was a punishment instead of a reward.”

Kovalchuk and Ovechkin stop whatever they were talking about -- Hockey? Synchronized eyebrow raises? -- to look at him.

“I mean,” Geno continues, “these assholes have almost blown up the planet, what? Five times? That they even tell us about? And every other week there’s this mad scramble to undo whatever their scientists did.”

“And that time an eel almost enslaved the Earth,” Ovechkin says.

“An _eel_.” Geno groans. “And now I’m going to another galaxy with the second-stringers.”

“Hey, remember Vaselov?” Ovechkin consoles. “He did okay.”

“He _died_.”

“I meant he did okay in terms of what usually happens to SG teams,” Ovechkin clarifies. “You know, the torture and insanity and alien possession.”

Geno lets his head thump down onto the table.

“Cheer up, it’s definitely not going to be as bad as Afghanistan.”

“Two weeks ago Major Ference got his entire team turned into children,” Kovalchuk says, ticking off on his fingers as he goes. “Dr. Toews probably orchestrated the resignation of Dr. Thornton, Dr. Szabados did an entire psych evaluation in character as Clint Eastwood from ‘Heartbreak Ridge’, and Major Kane has destroyed no fewer than three entire planets by accident -- to date.”

“Probably,” Ovechkin amends, patting Geno hard on the back. “It’s _probably_ not going to be as bad.”

 

* * *

 

In a move orchestrated by Ovechkin in what can only be some sort of horrific revenge for the St. Petersburg thing -- because _everything_ Ovechkin does is because of the St. Petersburg thing -- he announces that Geno will spend more time with Kane and Toews to increase team chemistry before they leave for Atlantis. It’s laughable, considering Kane and Toews don’t even get along themselves. Now Geno’s expected to be the glue that sticks their team together? This is a disaster if he ever saw one.

“The fuck is wrong with you?” Geno demands when Ovechkin tells him, smiling like the bastard he is from behind his desk.

“Don’t be like that, Zhenya--” Ovechkin starts.

“This is bullshit, Sasha.” Geno tries to appeal to Ovechkin’s distaste for all the bureaucratic nonsense that goes along with being a colonel. It usually works.

“Bullshit? Maybe. Your duty? Yes. Now go away, I have to think of a good excuse why Lieutenant Bobrovsky was caught impersonating a police officer yesterday.”

“I’m assuming you had something to do with it?” Geno asks, standing up and smoothing out his uniform shirt.

“Of course I did. I bet him two thousand rubles to do it, and then he had to go and get himself caught. I’m definitely not paying him now.”

 

* * *

 

 All in all, Brent thinks that the first meeting between Kane and Toews could have gone a little better. He knew that Toews harboured some pretty strong feelings about the competence and integrity of military personnel because the guy’s file is full of write-ups, but Brent had hoped that Toews could put it aside for like, five minutes.

He, apparently, can not.

“How many security personnel are you thinking of?” Toews asks, and Brent shrugs.

“Probably fifty-fifty,” Brent answers, watching Toews’ mouth turn down. “We need to balance data collection with keeping everyone safe.”

“Don’t you think that fifty-fifty is wasting a lot of resources?” Towes asks. “Like, spots that could go to people whose primary purpose is not killing everything in sight?”

“Not everything, maybe just you,” Kane mutters. Toews glares hard enough that Brent, watching from the other side of the table, wonders if Toews has just spontaneously developed a facial tick.

“I’m sorry,” Toews says, fake concern, “remind me when  the last time was that you made a contribution to this project?”

“Aside from my current heroic restraint?” Kane asks. “Well, I’m one of the officers with the most off-world experience, I’m commander of a senior gate team, _and_ I’m one of only three Tau’ri trusted by the Jaffa High Council. What have you done?”

“My discoveries save lives,” Toews insists, white-knuckling the arms of his chair.

“Your discoveries are pretty useless if everyone who could benefit from them is dead.”

"You wouldn't know human advancement if it bit you on the ass!" Toews shouts, throwing his hands up.

"Well if it's _your_ ass, then there's plenty of real estate!" Kane says, moving like he's going to stand up. Lieutenant Malkin pops out of his chair and puts a restraining hand on his shoulders, but Kane shakes it off. Brent isn't sure exactly what to do; Toews is a big guy and he's pretty built, but Kane's spent the last five years learning how to kill alien warlords with nothing but the wreckage of a 302-fighter and a give-‘em-hell attitude. He decides that Jonny's probably at the disadvantage.

“Enough!” Duncan shouts, and all eyes snap to him. “You two were picked for this, you agreed to this, you were approved for this, so fix whatever the fuck is going on by whatever means necessary.” His eyes turn hard. “If I have to go back to the IOA to get two new guys, it’s both your asses in a sling.”

He grabs his stuff off of the table and storms out. Ovechkin calls something out to Malkin, the Russian way too fast for Brent to even pretend to follow. Malkin’s eyes widen and it seems like he’s arguing, but Ovechkin keeps it up and eventually Malkin’s shoulders slump.

“We go,” he says, nodding towards the door. Everyone just kind of stares at him.

“Is now, we go,” he repeats, firmer, and actually moves to stand between Kane and Toews, gripping each by the forearm. He towers over Kane but isn’t much bigger than Toews, except that he has about ten pounds on him. They go with him easily enough, anyway.

“Zhenya will fix it,” Ovechkin says with a smile. “Team bonding.”

This comment, coupled with Ovechkin’s smile, does absolutely nothing to quiet his worries.

 

* * *

  

Geno decides after further contemplation that he doesn't really mind refereeing the Kane and Toews Comedy Hour, because it's one of the better gigs he's had -- especially considering that the last one involved being shot in the leg.

The problem is that he just doesn't understand their relationship, although he’s not sure they do, either.

Toews leaves their meeting while maintaining an uncomfortable amount of eye contact (does the guy ever _blink?_ ), and Major Kane follows. Geno’s pretty sure Ovechkin gave him this assignment as some sort of punishment-slash-hazing, but he’s determined to make the best of it. His life will be in the hands of these guys soon enough.

They go two floors down to one of the base gyms in what will surely be remembered as one of their more awkward elevator rides. When they get there, Toews twists open the combination lock on one of the cubbies in the corner while Kane just strips off his fatigue blouse and starts rocking up on the balls of his feet, stretching. Toews doesn’t even go into the stalls, just unbuttons his dress shirt with efficient motions and changes into a pair of athletic shorts.

Geno slides onto the closest treadmill and clicks it onto a low setting so that he can concentrate on whatever the hell is about to happen here.

There’s a moment where they just stand in the middle of the gym, glaring at each other, before Toews walks over to one of the pull-up bars and wraps his hands around it. He gives Kane a challenging look and the Major steps up to the adjacent one. They match each other rep for rep until they’re both red-faced and breathing heavily.

Toews finally drops back to his feet, and when Kane follows, there’s something harder in Toews’ eyes.

“Done?” Kane huffs out, smirking.

“Could go for days,” Toews spits back, and Kane drops to his knees, sitting back on his haunches. Geno almost stops the treadmill because what he thinks is about to happen can’t actually--

But no, Kane shoots another smug look at Toews and then assumes the standard rest position for push-ups, palms shoulder-width apart and one knee bent. Toews stares at the cut lines of his back through his tan t-shirt before matching him.

After thirty perfectly straight reps Kane pauses in the up position, shuffling his palms closer together until the tips of his index fingers and thumbs are touching, making a diamond with his hands. The muscles in his arms are stressed almost obscenely like this. Toews does the same but after only about twenty of those, Geno can see his back start to bow.

“Tight hips,” he offers, and the glare shifts from Kane to him.

"Tired, Doctor?" Kane asks, still grinning.

Toews pulls a face as they stop, both resting in the up position.

"Shut up, _Major_."

"Weak," Kane says, a little breathily. "Come on, you could do better than that. You've got so much to work with for nicknames." He lifts one palm off of the floormat and gestures to himself. “My height, my hair, my incredible good looks...”

“Just keep counting,” Toews sneers, and Kane laughs. He doesn’t put his hand back down, though, just curls it up to the small of his back and rests it there. He makes a steady down-up movement one-handed, still watching Toews. Toews just rolls his eyes and matches him.

They get about five of those in and Geno can see both of them start to fatigue, little tremors through their arms and back. It doesn’t seem like either is likely to give in, so Geno steps off of the treadmill and pulls them both back up by the collars of their shirts.

“Good,” he says, clapping their shoulders so hard that Kane stumbles forward a step. “All measured. Everyone friends now. We work, yes?”

Kane and Toews glare but head to their own offices.

 

~

 

The weird part is, things sort of calm down after that. Mostly.

The two of them still scream at each other during personnel selection meetings, in the gate room and in the mess hall, and once Patrick broke a beaker in Toews' lab that turned out to be a containment vessel for an alien microbe. The whole base was on lockdown for a few days. But, Toews is less likely to volunteer Patrick as a human meat shield than before, and Patrick's tolerance level for Toews' particular brand of bullshit seems to be growing to like, saintly levels. He even defends Toews during one of the sparring sessions with some grunts. It surprises the hell out of everyone when Patrick walks straight into a bitching session and reprimands them; even though Toews is a massive wankstain, he's going to be co-heading the hell out of this expedition and deserves  _some_ respect. 

Round one of the briefings begins and there isn’t time to do more than make a few snide comments to each other in between the meetings and the gym sessions and trying to hide how much Patrick’s stomach churns when he sees his old team assembling in the gateroom behind Captain Lamoureux.

Patrick sits through more meetings than he’s ever been in, including all those pointless inspections and briefings that the Air Force likes to throw his way, and he feels that he is being incredibly heroic in that he hasn’t clawed his own face off yet.

“The gates work by connecting two ends of a wormhole,” Dr. Briere says, pointing to his powerpoint presentation and looking like even _he’s_ not listening anymore, “Allowing almost instantaneous travel to any point in the galaxy. As long as you know the seven-digit dialing code of the gate you want to reach, you can go there.” He clicks to advance the slide and all seven symbols pop up. “Previously, we had thought that the Stargate system existed only in the Milky Way, but the recent discovery of Ancient technology underneath Antarctica has led us to believe that the gates are also capable of intergalactic travel.”

Patrick's will to live might be slipping away, or that could be the light sedative Bieksa gave him kicking in. Sure, name him head of this whole clusterfuck, that’s no pressure. Just the fate of the galaxy in his hands. The lights in the conference room are dim for the presentation and when Patrick looks across the table, Richie’s got his face propped up on his palm and he might still be drunk from last night so, whatever, he can rest his eyes for a minute.

Briere is still talking, but at this point he’s so tired -- they all are, working double overtime in preparation -- that his accent has started to slip out a little and it’s sort of pleasant and soft, so Patrick doesn’t mind. He knows everything Danny's saying anyway; he’s been leading SG-3 for a few years now and there isn’t a whole lot in the galaxy that can surprise him.

“We now believe that the Ancients, the inventors of the Stargates, actually came to Earth from another galaxy called Pegasus. Dr. Jackson and Dr. Giroux will be briefing you on this later. So,” Patrick wants to just slide off his seat and onto the floor, “our best chance to find more ZPMs lies in the Pegasus galaxy.”

“At their most basic level, ZPMs run off of vacuum subspace energy. Dr. Crawford will go into more detail in a minute,” a quick glance up confirms that Crawford is the only one who looks remotely excited about that, “but because they use zero point energy, they last for hundreds of thousands of years. Unfortunately, the Ancients have been gone a long time and it is rare to find one with remaining power.”

Briere clicks through a handful of other slides, just more background about the system used to compensate for planetary drift and how to factor in the eighth chevron. Patrick actually did a bit of revision work for those calculations, so this part’s not super interesting either. Eventually Dr. Crawford moves to the front of the room and accepts the presentation remote from Briere.

“The number one thing I want to emphasize,” he says, “is that this is a one-way trip. I’m gonna tell you exactly why and a lot of you aren’t gonna listen, but listen to this part.” Patrick sits up a little straighter, taking his head out of his hands. He feels a little bit caught.

“We have to assume that you won’t find a new ZPM,” Crawford says, stone-faced. The slide behind him is blank-white and the reflection makes him glow a bit. “So we can only spare enough power from the remaining one to get you _to_ Atlantis. Making it home is your responsibility. The Daedalus will arrive in about five months, but until then you’re on your own.”

He makes level eye-contact with the room for a few beats and then clicks forward in his presentation. A series of differential equations flood the screen. Crawford’s voice is firm and his math is correct, and when Patrick looks over he finds that for once Toews isn’t glaring like he thinks he could do a better job.

 

* * *

 

Toews’s somewhat balanced mood from the briefing lasts about three minutes.

“No,” he says when Patrick pushes a file across the desk. Patrick doesn’t have his own office and Jonny’s lab has been declared off-limits to him for reasons that are mostly concerned with him almost knocking into the thing with the vines that Seabrook warned him about. So, they’re stuck in Sharpy’s broom closet office, trying not to let their calves brush too much and disagreeing on every personnel choice. (They were banned from the conference rooms after that time Toews threw the muffins from the basket on the table at him.)

“You haven’t even read it,” Patrick sighs. Toews hasn’t read any of his suggestions but hey, fiftieth time’s the charm.

“I don’t have to,” Toews replies, not looking up from his tablet. “Everyone you pick is a thug. It’s bad enough taking orders from _you._ ”

“Thug?” Patrick raises an eyebrow. It’s a gesture he’s doing a lot of around Toews.

“You know what I mean,” Toews huffs, waving his hand. “If you go down, this person’s gonna be in charge. So far, I see no one who deserves it.”

“Deserving something isn’t the point.” Patrick feels like he’s rehashing a tired argument, but Toews made his opinion of the military support exceptionally clear. It seems to have upgraded from ‘meat shield,’ but his guys are going to protect Toews’s ass and he needs to show some respect to that. “Deserving is theoretical. You have to _earn_ this. And everyone I’ve shown you has earned it.”

“They don’t have any science knowledge.” Toews sounds like he’s on the precipice of a whine.

“They don’t need it,” Patrick says slowly, so that there’s no room for misinterpretation. “They need ‘not-getting-you-shot’ knowledge.”

“ _You_ have science knowledge,” Toews mutters, looking back at his screen. Patrick’s sure he’s not hiding the surprise on his face.

“You read that deep in my file?”

“Like I was gonna agree to this otherwise.” He rolls his eyes.

“I’m touched, Doctor, I really am.” Patrick puts his hand over his heart.

“Shut up. What about Mike Richards?”

Patrick turns back to his tablet and shakes his head.

“Says he’s not going without Lieutenant Carter, whose incident record says he’s not going without Jack Daniels and a promotion. Also, there was that time Richie was the liaison to a visiting senator and he took the lady’s nineteen-year-old kid to a bar in Silver Springs. Got him shitfaced on dark‘n’stormies while he and Carter fucked in the bathroom ‘cos they can’t on base.”

“Who said romance is dead?” Toews says, deadpan.

“Anyway, I want Shawsy,” Patrick says, spinning it around to show Shaw’s file.

“Perfect for when you want a little frat house atmosphere for your intergalactic Hail-Mary missions,” Toews snorts.

“He’s a good guy and he has a great service record,” Patrick says. He’s defending a lot of his choices to Jonny these days, and this was not really what he envisioned when he thought about his future as the commander of an expedition into another galaxy.

For one, he had pictured a lot more down-for-it aliens and fewer pasty Canadian scientists, but Patrick’s always been proud of his ability to roll with the punches.

 

* * *

 

 So, Kane can get fucked if he thinks that Jonny’s going to let him ride all over him or this mission, not with how important it is. It seems like he’s purposefully offering the most unqualified people for the 2IC position just to get Jonny’s back up, maybe to force him to compromise on something else later in exchange for a good pick.

It’s not that Jonny’s scared, because that would be ridiculous. He wasn’t scared when his parents sent him to boarding school, he wasn’t scared when he made a division one hockey team, and he wasn’t scared when three guys in dark suits grabbed him on his way to the undergrad labs and shoved him into a town car -- that’s how he ended up in the SGC, after all. He is, however, _concerned_.

He likes being the best and he _is_ at his best in the labs; off-world is a place for loud flyboys like Kane and prank-pulling douchebags like Sharp. He’s willing to admit that a part of him is concerned about being left alone on an alien planet with no backup if Major Kane should suddenly take the phaser beam to the face that he so clearly has coming.

He owes it to the program to do his due diligence, even if his first instinct is to reject all of Kane’s candidates, so that night he logs on through the base computers to access Shaw’s file. Except, when he types in his authentication code, nothing changes.

The screen is still filled with lines and lines of black bars and the actual text, bullet points that are probably mission names and dates, is interspersed with ‘REDACTED’ so often that it might as well not be there. All Jonny can see is Shaw’s picture, his vital stats, and ‘Canadian Special Operations’.

He has the highest security clearance known to all permanent members of the G8 and he can’t see this file? It’s frustrating and intriguing, and he convinces himself that must be what leads him to find Kane the next morning in the mess.

“Fine,” he says, dropping his tray onto Kane’s table with a clatter. “Shaw is in.”

Kane catches Shaw’s eye from across the hall and they air high-five. Jonny just wants to punch both of them, but for the good of the mission he grits his jaw and sits down.

“I want to read his file though, no redactions,” he adds as he picks up a half of his bagel. Kane pushes a thick folder with a skull and crossbones stamped in ugly red writing between them, pressing it closed with his pointer finger. It’s as if he knew Jonny was going to--

“I’m not technically supposed to be sharing that with non-military members of this trip, so I’m staying until you’re done and we’re doing the whole burn-after-reading thing,” is all Kane says. Jonny rolls his eyes and Kane withdraws his hand, sitting back with a pudding cup to watch him.

Jonny mutters under his breath -- he hates people watching him read, it’s weird and _rude_ \-- but settles in. It proves to be an illuminating read, one that fills Jonny with a little more confidence than he’d had before, and the mini bonfire they start in Sharp’s lab to destroy the evidence might just be the beginnings of a bonding experience.

He hasn’t really been on the other side of a prank, not like this. It was always juvenile bullshit being pulled on him by the other post-grads, jealous of his intellect and everything else. When he voices how much of a bad idea it is, Kane just shrugs and pulls out a match, dropping it in the bin while one of Dr. Yandle’s robot experiments keeps a lookout.

 

* * *

 

“We’ve settled on Dr. Toews of the SGC to chair the science department and Major Kane of the USAF to lead the military presence,” Brent reads, squinting at the crumpled piece of legal pad paper in his hand. There are dozens of other sheets scattered around on the conference table in front of him, most scrunched up into balls.

The delegates from the IOA look around and nod reluctantly, as if they’re disappointed that it’s only taken them two weeks of constant arguing and backroom deals to reach an agreement. Duncan gives his cursory approval; he and Brent had been up for hours and hours last night, hammering out the details in an effort to present a united front. They’ve dealt with politicians before.

“Dr. Sharp of the SGC will chair the engineering department and share administrative duties with Dr. Toews,” Brent continues, and already hands are shooting up. Duncan tries to glare them into submission. “Dr. Eberle is being flown in from Edmonton as we speak to begin preparations as Chief of Medicine.”

There are now a lot of hands and even more chattering.

“Dr. Giroux will be acting head of archeology and anthropology, assisted by Dr. Bissonnette. Major Shaw of the Canadian special forces will be second-in-command, along with leading his own off-world team, and Lieutenant Malkin will be representing Russian interests on the flagship off-world team. First Lieutenant Whitney of the USMC and Captain Price and Major Fleury of the RCAF will head the other teams.”

Duncan looks over to where Malkin is slumping in his office chair and making abortive little spins back and forth. Ovechkin got the last Russian seat at the big conference table so Malkin’s had to make do at the side table with all the coffee and bagels on it. Duncan hasn’t spent a lot of time with him, but he doesn’t seem particularly motivated to represent anyone’s interests. He sticks close by Colonel Kovalchuk and Ovechkin, and that’s a tough circle to break into. Most of the guys have stopped trying.

Brent is trying to keep order in the room, raising his voice over the steady chirp-chirp of the delegates, but it’s a losing battle. Duncan turns his attention back to Malkin.

He’s got a pad and pen out but seems to be daydreaming, if the way he can’t quite keep his head up is any indication. Except, no-- his head is down because he’s holding something in his palm. Duncan cranes his neck back as far as he can without being obvious and yeah, he’s playing Candy Crush on his tablet.

Oh yes, this mission is _foolproof_.

 

* * *

 

Some guys in the service and under the Mountain like to record short videos to their families in the event that their next mission is their last one, but Patrick has always found that depressing and a little creepy - they’re bad luck, like death letters. But he concedes that this mission in particular might deserve one.

He gets a copy of the guidelines and sits in front of the camcorder. It’s everything he expects: no mission names or specifics, no mentioning anyone else in the program, no mentioning the program.

He leans forward to hit record but just blinks at the camera, watching the red light burn. He finds he has nothing to say.

“Uhm, hi... Mom, Dad -- girls. I uh, I’m not really sure what to say. It’s kind of depressing, trying to think of a way to tell you anything without breaking about eighty laws. But I, uh. I just want to tell you all how much I love you, and how glad I am that I got to grow up around such an awesome family.”

He feels a lump forming in his throat, and swallows past it.

“I know you didn’t really understand why I joined the Air Force, especially after all the stuff Mom saw. I could’ve done a lot of things, but I think that I knew I could do the most good here. That I was able to, uh. That I could help people, get things done in places that aren’t as fortunate as America. Like Canada.” He gives a watery smile and clears his throat.

“Sorry. Look, I’ve been doing this a long time. I hope I’ve made you proud, and I’ll keep making you proud. I love you all.”

He waits for a few seconds but nothing else comes out, so he stops the recording and marks his name on the sign-in sheet. He doesn’t remember having so much trouble last time.

When he steps out of the room, Toews is sitting on the floor across from the doorway, staring at nothing. He looks up when he sees Patrick come out, and a beat passes between them -- Toews looks like he’s about to ask something Patrick doesn’t know how to answer, so he just jerks a thumb over his shoulder.

“All yours,” he says. Toews nods and drops his eyes back to the floor, looking pale. Patrick bites his lip, searching for the right thing to say.

“You’ll be fine," is all Patrick can land on, feeling embarrassed. He just nods as encouragingly as he can and heads off down the corridor, glancing back when he hears the door open to see the end of Jonny’s lab coat disappearing.

 

* * *

 

_ How To Deal With Possibly Hostile Ancient Civilisations And Not Cause An Intergalactic War 101 _

 

Jonny looks at the board, wondering if it’s Dr. Jackson’s work while he types out a furious email to the staff at the hotel he’s been staying at for the past week. His quarters in the Mountain are being fumigated after the not-bees that some idiot bought back from P3X-124 escaped and started building super hives everywhere.

This one housekeeper named Brian keeps barging in and demanding to change his sheets, even when he’s told the front desk repeatedly that it doesn’t need to be done every day. It’s a problem when his room is covered in sensitive information, and Jonny’s not willing to rule out the possibility that Brian is actually working for some nefarious secret organization.

“Well, that’s excessive capitalization if I’ve ever seen it,” Sharp says as he slides into the spare seat next to Jonny. He sniffs, not looking up from his tablet. He’s testing out a new theory with Sharp -- if he ignores him, maybe he’ll go away and leave Jonny the hell alone.

“Then again, it is a subject that needs a lot of delicacy,” Sharp continues, gesturing at the whiteboard.

“Don’t you have Major Burish to harass or something?” Jonny asks, breaking far too quickly. Sharp shrugs and leans back in his chair.

“He’s on his way. He’s just rounding up Kaner and Malkin from the gym.”

Jonny frowns. His relationship with Kane is still filled with the friction of headstrong people who don’t know each other that well and are trying to navigate into something like -- well, who knows. At least they’ve stopped trying to throw things at each other.

“--and so Gally was teaching Nail how to play quarters. I didn’t think the kid had it in him, smiley little Canadian that he is,” Sharp’s saying as Jonny zones back in from his thoughts.

“Nail didn’t know how to play quarters?” Jonny asks. It’s not like he ever really got the chance to act out, between being extremely underage and not exactly the most popular guy around, but he did his fair share of drinking his misery away during his PhD. The games were just a by-product of drunken YouTubing with the other candidates he hadn’t alienated at that point. There’s gotta be some sort of Russian equivalent.

“I don’t think so. Then again, he kept trying to shotgun the bottle, so maybe they just do things differently there?”

“Or maybe he’s just an alcoholic,” Jonny mutters.

Kane’s arrival is preceded by Malkin, who walks through the door looking wet and grim. He always looks grim, especially around the Major -- occupational hazard, he supposes. Jonny watches as Malkin spots Nail and heads straight toward him. Nail blinks and then rolls his eyes as Malkin slides down into the seat next to him.

“Dr. Toews… come here often?” Kane smirks as he sits down on Jonny’s other side. Being flanked by the Patricks is a terrifying ordeal on the best of days.

“Neither of you are allowed to sit near me. Go away,” Jonny says and both of them just laugh and start talking around him about the new physical therapist that joined SGC.

Fucking _great_.

 

~

 

Ten minutes after the class is supposed to begin, a guy rolls into the room wearing boat shoes, jeans, a muscle t-shirt and thick-rimmed glasses. The most noticeable thing is the full sleeve tattoo on his left arm and the ostentatious watch.

“Good morning everyone… sorry I’m late. Brendan got bored this morning and decided to colour code the books in my office, so I couldn’t fucking find anything.”

He dumps a stack of folders on the desk, tapping at the laptop while snickers run around the room and Gallagher makes a face.

“They’re alphabetical and sorted by subject matter! It’s called _organisation_.”

The room falls into silence as Bissonnette pulls up the slides, and twenty pairs of uninterested eyes stare at him.

“I’m Dr. Bissonnette. You can call me Biz,” he says and jabs at the slide.

“I’m one of the lead anthropologists at the SGC. Dr. Jackson is too busy dealing with a Goa'uld mess and Dr. Giroux’s slideshows are seizure-inducing, so he asked me to take these classes. I’ve made some changes -- his last presentation was fucking boring and I’m pretty sure I passed out and lost ten years.” He claps his hands once.

“I understand a lot of you have off-world experience, but General O’Neill and General Carter told me that all future Atlantis personnel have to come to at least one of these classes, even if you’re already on a gate team, so here we are. Make sure you attend -- I have sign off sheets. The last thing I need is Sam Carter kicking down my door, I have enough ladies doing that.”

He starts to pass the clipboard around and then points to Major Kane.

“Now, Major Kane is going to help me after I establish some of the basic stuff, so why don’t you come up here before Dr. Toews throws another chair at you, eh?” A ripple of laughter goes through the room as Kane grins and slides out, coming to stand by Biz.

“The first step in dealing with possibly hostile civilizations and not causing an intergalactic war is to make sure you have someone with hostage negotiation experience or a background in some sort of anthropology. Obviously there’s going to be teams existing of highly specialised individuals, but for the most part we want to spread out our resources and try and be as prepared for anything as possible.”

He clicks onto a new slide, which has a few bullet points and a picture of SG-1 meeting with the mayor of Amra. He steps aside and defers to Kane, who smiles and waves.

“So uh, hi. I’m Major Patrick Kane -- I’ll be head of military on the Atlantis program. I know the idea of going somewhere you can’t come back from is an overwhelming thought on the best of days -- trust me, I have the same thoughts whenever I have to go see Dr. Toews in his labs, but we’re gonna do great things. I know we are.”

Nobody moves, and Kane rubs the back of his neck and turns to the slide.

“So, this is situation number one. When you come through a gate, you’re either going to come through to nothing, or you’re gonna get a welcome party. We use the MALP probe to determine atmospheric conditions and if there are any relevant biosignatures if it’s a planet we’ve never been to before. Introductions and being culturally aware are the most important things for a first meeting, but it’s not always easy to prepare for. Sometimes you’re gating to worlds in an emergency, sometimes you don’t know what’s beyond the gate area, which is why it’s important to have a team with a diverse skillset.”

His next slide has _Tau’ri_ written in Roman alphabet at the top and then several other scripts below. Jonny doesn’t actually recognize them all. “Our tribal name is Tau’ri in this galaxy. It’s technically a Goa’uld name, but the Goa’uld ruled every planet around here for thousands of years, so don’t worry about being recognized.”

He advances the presentation and mugshot-style photos of the most powerful Goa’uld in their hosts pop up.

“So, I’d really like to be able to say that there’s one proven way to make contact, but there isn’t.” He shrugs. “Observation is key. Look around, see how things are done. Copy that. The Goa’uld influence is still being felt and not a whole lot of people are happy to see someone come through the Stargate. You’re gonna get shot at a few times.”

Jonny crossed his arms and then feels weirdly defensive, like not wanting to get shot equates to blinking first. He probably just needs more sleep.

“There are gonna be times when everything goes smoothly, and there are gonna be times when someone here needs to negotiate for your release. Just remember that your team leaders are in charge for a reason. Trust them and follow their example. In situations where there’s equal seniority between science and military personnel -- for example, if myself and Dr. Toews were on a team together,” Kane drawls, grinning as Jonny glares at him.

“--Or if Biz and Major Fleury were on a team together, Biz would have to defer to Major Fleury. Security of personnel comes before mission completion.”

He clicks again and there are several grainy pictures of human figures in pale cloaks taken from their POV mission cameras. Jonny thinks he recognizes them from a mission report. Kane looks sombre as he continues.

“People aren’t always what they seem. If you remember these guys, then you remember that we learned that the hard way.”

Some of the more experienced team members shift uncomfortably in their seats and Kane waves a hand.

“Also a common occurrence is getting kidnapped. I’ve been kidnapped like, seven times now? Kind of loses its shine after a while. If you can make contact with SGC, wait for rescue. If you can’t, try to escape or if all else fails… well. Anyway, SGC are going to give all the scientists basic military training, overseen by me and my team. It’s a core requirement, so don’t even think of trying to get out of it.”

The next slide is definitely a still from the Nirogi negotiations video. Jonny catches sight of Shaw sinking a little lower in his seat and smirks.

“So, that’s about it. Thanks for being a great audience. Dr. Biz is going to take it from here, and I’ll see everybody with fewer than five off-world trips in the main gym at 0600 tomorrow.” Kane sits back down and Biz steps up again.

“So, this is my guide to being an off-world chowhound. Meals can be tricky, diplomatically. Obviously you don’t wanna be eating just whatever they put in front of you -- it could be poisoned, it could be bad for the digestion, or it could just be fucking nasty. A lot of the time you can skip the food, but it’s pretty bad manners if you’re formally invited. My main suggestion would be to try a little. Wait for the local person in charge to start eating -- and whatever you do, don’t spit it out.”

Kane seems like he might have a comment, so Jonny elbows him in the side. Kane shoots him a look but stays quiet.

“If it looks good and tastes good then you’re probably fine.” Biz shrugs. “The physiology is basically the same, it’s just that your body might need to adjust to the new food. You’ll be surviving mostly on trade in Pegasus, anyway, so don’t turn your nose up at something until you’ve tried it.”

“So, uh, I’ll be taking questions now,” he says, and a lot of hands shoot up. Jonny sighs.

 

* * *

 

Patrick sits on the bench in Gags’ quarters, watching as Gags wriggles under his bed and looks for the phone charger he’s been swearing up and down for weeks that Patrick stole.

“Why the fuck’re you under there, anyway? It’s gotta be near your computer.”

Gags pulls himself out from underneath the bed, just so he can give Patrick a level glare. “I looked there. I swear, Pat, if this is another prank--”

“I’ve told you a thousand times, I didn’t steal your fucking iPhone charger!”

Gags is about to start an argument, one Patrick knows he’ll win, when a grunt appears at the open doorway, looking unsure if he wants to enter. Patrick’s not surprised; Gags constantly gets reprimanded for the state of his living quarters.

“Sir?”

Patrick looks over -- it’s Specialist Hall. Patrick doesn’t spend a lot of time with the enlisted by repeated order of Landry, but he sees the guys around at pickup games and stuff.

“Yes?”

“You’re both needed in the Command Room. We’re almost ready to leave, sir.”

“I think it’s total bullshit I have to stay here while you get to go on the Atlantis program,” Gags mutters after Hall leaves. “You still need an adult to supervise you.”

Patrick flips him the bird and slides off the desk. “Yeah, well. I’m the lucky one. Keith knows the difference between talent and a waste of space,” he says, ducking away from punches.

He’s about to ask Gags something stupid, something that could make their last interaction awkward but hopefully memorable, when Bur appears at the doorway.

“Boys!” he exclaims, coming inside and kicking the door shut behind him. Gags groans.

Bur laughs as he slings an arm around Patrick’s shoulders. “So, it’s D-Day! You excited, precious?” he asks, smirking as Patrick jabs him with bony elbows.

“What do you think? Not every day I get to lead an army into another galaxy.”

Gags mimes shooting himself in the head.

“Well, I’ve got good news, too,” Bur says with a smile. “Came to collect my best pilot because someone’s gotta fly an Alkesh into System Lords territory while SG-1 does its thing.”

Gags sighs, drawn-out. “Just once, I’d like to be something other than the bait.”

“Whatever, finish cleaning up your shit before someone sees this mess. Oh, and if you see Biz when you leave, tell him to hurry the fuck up. He’s leaving with the Atlantis personnel,” Bur says, stepping back outside.

There’s a quiet moment where Patrick and Gags just stare at each other. Gags is holding a mismatched pair of boot socks.

“So, goodbye, I guess,” Gags says, looking down at the socks. Patrick hitches a shoulder and stands up to pull him in for a gruff hug.

“I’ll be back in a week, no problem,” he says into the thick polyester of Gags’ uniform blouse. “You won’t even have found your phone charger by the next time you see me.”

Gags squeezes once, hard, and then grips Patrick by the back of the neck.

“If I find out,” he says, pulling back far enough to look Patrick in the eye, “that you took it, I will fly to Pegasus and kill you myself.”

Patrick breaks into a smile that Gags returns.

“Now get the fuck out,” Gags says, kicking aside a pile of PT gear. “I have to plan my outfit for my mission. Bait or not, I need matching socks.”

 

* * *

 

Burish is waiting for Patrick outside Gags’ quarters.

“Too bad he can’t go with you, right?” Burish asks. Patrick shrugs.

“It’s always nice to have someone you trust, but I understand why they said no. Can’t bring all our experienced people and leave Earth in the hands of a bunch of cadets.”

Bur looks amused. “That’s the same thing O’Neill said to Jackson when he told him he couldn’t go. He’s sulking now, even though Biz and Dr. Giroux can handle it and I’m sure O’Neill will let him go once everything’s safe.”

Patrick nods and they walk in silence for a few moments.

“Hey, what do you know about everyone on the mission? Like, personal stuff?” Bur asks, changing topics. They turn towards the gate room.

“Enough,” Patrick says. “I read all their files and I know a lot of people from just being under the Mountain.”

“So, you know about the good doctor’s citrus thing--”

“Jesus, who _doesn’t_ know about his citrus thing?”

“Well,” Burish says conspiratorially, “take this and use it in peace, not war.” He shoves a lemon into Patrick’s hand and makes a neat right into one of the common rooms.

 

~

 

The gate room is fucking chaos, as it usually is before a mission, except there are piles and piles of equipment everywhere. Keith and Seabrook are standing up near the control panel, arguing with Tavares -- or each other, it’s hard to tell. Patrick feels as safe as he can with those two running it; they’re perfect unity of bureaucracy and _getting-shit-done_ ness.

His eyes are drawn to the Russians talking in another corner, Ovechkin laughing at something Malkin says. He spots Toews’ RA beside them, but he’s talking to a short, stocky kid with a Canadian patch on his arm and a blue science shirt.

“Who’s the kid?” he asks Sharpy when he spots him in the melee.

“Dunno. Science shirt, so one of Tazer’s minions?” he suggests. Patrick frowns. He’s supposed to co-approve all personnel, and he definitely doesn’t remember that face.

He finds Toews bent over a tablet, tapping furiously. The good doctor is dressed in the standard science attire: grey fatigue pants and a blue compression shirt. His biceps flex as he jabs at the screen, and Patrick allows himself a small moment to appreciate the view. That is, before his laser eyes turn on Patrick and he glares even more than he was before.

“About time you showed up,” he says and Patrick rolls his eyes. He’s letting things slide on Earth because there’s going to be some serious retribution when they get settled in Atlantis. They might be working toward presenting a united front to the troops, but if that asshole thinks he’s not getting short-sheeted at least _once_ , he’s got another thing coming.

“They’re not gonna leave without me,” Patrick says with a smirk. Toews huffs and turns back to his tablet just as Hall, carrying at least three ammo boxes, collides with a large black box near them. It falls over with a crash, spilling equipment all over the floor.

“Watch where you’re fucking going!” Toews shouts, abandoning his typing in favor of yelling while Hall tries to put everything away.

“Woah, dial it back!” Patrick says, stepping between Toews and Hall. Toews has settled back into that expression of quiet fury that’s kinda worse than the shouting.

“Keep your people in line,” is all he says, before storming off. Patrick stares at his back before bending down to help Hall.

 

* * *

 

On the other side of the gate room, Geno and Ovechkin watch as Kane and Toews take turns sniping at each other while preparing for the mission.

“So, these two are supposed to be what keeps us safe on Atlantis, again?” Geno asks. Ovechkin claps him on the shoulder.

“Lover’s spat,” Ovechkin says. “What odds do you want that they end up fucking?”

Geno considers it for a minute but shakes his head. “Feels like bad luck to bet on a mission we haven’t even started.”

“Can’t believe I have to work with him everyday,” Yakupov moans from somewhere behind them.

“Who volunteered you for these shitty jobs?” Geno asks. Yakupov glares at Ovechkin, who becomes suddenly very interested in one of the American soldiers standing nearby with a frown on his face.

“He can’t understand you--” Geno starts when Ovechkin begins chatting away in Russian, but the soldier rolls his eyes and walks closer, his pale fingers resting on the gun clipped to his chest.

“Making assumptions, pal,” he says right back, scowling. “Lieutenant Galchenyuk.”

“Nice to meet you,” Geno says meekly, and Ovechkin sighs loudly.

“Zhenya, you’re supposed to be in charge of the Russian forces. At least _act_ like a commanding officer,” he says.

“I'm not Russian!” Galchenyuk exclaims. 

 

* * *

 

“Remind me again why I agreed to this?” Sharp asks, appearing next to Bur.

“It’s probably the greatest thing you’re ever going to do, Sharpy. Besides, Toews wants you on the front lines. Lots of engineering work to be done when you get to Atlantis, if what Jackson says is true,” Bur says as they walk to the control panels.

“Does anyone know where Dr. Eberle is?” a tall, blonde grunt asks, swerving awkwardly around a pile of cables in the process. He must be the one who kicked Toews’s box of magic tricks. Both of them shake their heads, and watch as he curses and takes off at a jog.

“Remember to go easy on the grunts, Sharpy. You have to be Jeckyll to Jonny’s Hyde,” Bur says, nudging him. Sharp snorts and steps away from Bur as General O’Neill and General Sam Carter stride in and Burish calls the room to attention. Sharpy and the other scientists stand there awkwardly until General O’Neill puts them all at ease.

Seabrook and Keith walk up to the control panel, dressed identically except for their dark red jackets to identify them as heads of the operation. Seabrook has glasses on, and Keith is fiddling with his watch.

“Major Kane, are we good to go?” General Carter asks, a smile playing at the edge of her mouth. Patrick nods, shoving his hands in his pockets.

“Just cleaning up some of Dr. Toews’ equipment, and then we’re ready.”

She turns back to General O’Neill, and Patrick sends a pleading look at Bur and Sharp.

“I’m gonna kill him,” he says and Bur slaps a hand down on his shoulder.

“You’ll be fine. Take deep breaths. Count to ten. Make a piñata with his face on it?”

Patrick nods, like just imagining it helps.

 

* * *

 

Biz comes wandering into the gate room a few moments later, followed closely by two grunts hauling several suitcases.

“Travelling light?” Patrick asks as Biz comes to stop next to him.

“Need my research,” Biz replies. “And my collection of speedos. Never know when there will be ladies to impress.”

“I’m sure they’re impressed no matter what,” Patrick says loyally.

“G’s got the rest of the anthro stuff,” Biz nods to where Giroux is talking quietly to Dr. Briere, “And Dr. Hossa is bringing in the last of his stuff, too, but it’s all the botany shit so it’s really heavy.”

General Carter strides off down to the gate, presumably to remind Toews one last time not to be the biggest asshole the universe spat out, and General O’Neill catches Patrick’s eye and taps on the face of his watch.

Patrick swallows and nods jerkily, turning towards the Stargate. Even after all the missions he’s done, this one has an air of finality that none of them did; the thrum of his nerve endings under his skin singing.

 

* * *

  

Tavares begins to dial while Toews and Sharp stand next to Patrick, their arms crossed. They’re all clear of the gate, front and center of the team gathering behind them.

The klaxons start wailing and lights start flashing as the Stargate begins to spin. “Chevron one encoded,” Tavares says over the PA system, his voice echoing in the gateroom. Patrick actually holds his breath when the eighth chevron beings to spin, but it locks in with no trouble.

Patrick looks back to the control room and can see Dr. Jackson standing with O’Neill, Biz and Giroux, talking urgently to them about something. Probably a last ditch attempt to join the expedition -- Patrick doesn’t like his chances.

They all stand clear of the puddle area, and Patrick feels the waves of energy wash over him as it splashes out and stabilizes. Toews looks a little green, and Patrick nudges him roughly. Can’t have his head of science bitching out before it even starts.

“Sending the MALP!” Tavares announces, and the MALP whirs into life. It heads towards the puddle and disappears.

Seabrook and Keith appear and come to stand in front of everyone, serious looks on their faces.

“If anyone has changed their mind and can’t go through with this -- now is your last chance to say it,” Keith says, and Patrick looks over his shoulder. Nobody moves.

“Alright, we’re glad to see that you’re all as dedicated to this as we hoped you were. With that said, let’s move out! First contact team will go through, secure a perimeter and then give the all clear on the MALP to start mobilizing the gear and personnel. We only have a thirty-eight minute window, if the ZPM can even hold the connection for that long. Godspeed, ladies and gentlemen. We’re doing a great thing for our countries and for humankind,” Seabrook says, and they step aside.

Patrick swallows thickly as he moves closer to the puddle.

“Shaw, Sharp, Toews, Malkin, Giroux!” he calls, facing the room at large. Sharp hugs Bur, who’s apparently been lurking towards the back, the freak, before pushing through the crowds of scientists and soldiers toward him.

Malkin bids goodbye to Ovechkin, who bumps their foreheads together. Patrick quirks an eyebrow as Toews sways a little closer to him, enough that their shoulders press together for a beat, and Patrick can feel him shaking.

“I won’t let anything happen to you,” he says, somewhat belatedly, and Toews huffs.

“Like I’m putting my life completely in _your_ hands, Major,” he mutters back and Patrick -- Patrick would smirk, would say something funny, but it’s all gone. All he can do is choke out a laugh and wait until Malkin and Giroux are standing on his sides.

“Safety off. But uh... ask questions first, shoot later.”

Their guns click off safety in tandem, as several Marines come to stand behind them, their guns also at the ready and waiting for Patrick’s lead.

“Alright. Yippy-ki-yay, motherfucker!” Patrick says, and heads up the ramp towards the shimmering gate.

“Did he _seriously_ just start this mission with a quote from Die Hard?” is the last thing he hears, before stepping into the event horizon and squeezing his eyes shut.


	2. what are you, some kind of half-assed astronaut?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> His major cause for concern is the six-foot-two lump of nervous Canadian to his right, who’s shifting from foot to foot and brushing his thumb over the safety of his P-90 in an uneven rhythm. Patrick knows that Jonny has been off-world before, but he also knows that it hasn’t always been the smoothest affair -- particularly that time he accidentally sat on a prehistoric relic on P3X-043 and was sentenced to death. Patrick would like to avoid that this time around, if possible.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, the feedback on the first chapter was all kinds of mind-blowing; so many thanks to everyone who took the time to comment and leave kudos. We’re just glad people besides us want to read this. Thanks also to alcatraz and jkeats, who are champs for stepping up to pull beta duty. 
> 
> Warnings and appendix updates at the end.

It takes a couple of blinks before his eyes start to adjust to the darkness. He can feel Toews pressed up along his back, breathing heavily against his neck, wet and shallow. He slaps his hand back, connecting with a satisfying sting on the side of Toews’ neck.

“Knock it off,” Patrick hisses as the MALP turns and throws them into its spotlight. “Ow, Jesus -- _Tavares_!” he snaps, rubbing his eyes. The MALP swings away and the light cuts off.

“Glasses,” he says and puts his own on, even though these faux-Oakley night-vis goggles make them look like douchebags. He can feel Toews step away and turns to see him staring down at his tablet, tapping furiously.

“If I had to guess,” Toews says, not looking up, “there hasn’t been anyone here for a long time.”

Patrick takes another step toward the gate room, and a huge whirring sound begins.

Malkin and Shawzy jerk at the same time as Patrick, bringing their weapons up. Before they can even establish the direction of the sound, the lights flare on. Patrick flails around for a minute until he manages to pull off the glasses that are now in total white-out.

“Must be sensors or something,” he says, taking another step forward. The corridor lights to his right flicker to life.

“Are we giving them the heads up?” Toews asks, and Patrick nods, flashing a thumbs up right in the MALP’s camera. A moment later the expedition members manifest in the gateroom, carrying pallets and duffles. Captain Price and Lieutenant Whitney are the last through, clutching their weapons and blinking owlishly in the brightness.

“Is that everyone?” Patrick asks, and Toews and Sharp nod. They turn back to the gate and watch as the wormhole begins begins to flicker and die -- but not before a bottle comes rolling through.

It comes to a stop by Patrick’s boot, and as he bends down to pick it up his face breaks into a grin. “Moet and Chandon. Not bad.”

He hands it to Keith, who rolls his eyes and gives it to Seabrook. Seabs pops the lid with very little finesse, the cork rocketing into a nearby pallet of lab equipment.

“Watch it!” Toews snaps, and Seabs chuckles, uncowed, passing it to the line of senior staff. Patrick just swigs from the bottle when it gets to him and hands it to Toews, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

The bottle is empty by the time it gets to Malkin, who doesn’t seem that disappointed if the way he waves off Biz’s apologetic look is any indication.

Keith, who’s been watching the whole thing, tugs his uniform blouse down a bit and motions to Seabrook. They confer for a minute and then pull Patrick and Toews aside.

“Alright,” Keith says, “let's establish this as the gate room, the control room is behind us.”

“We’re spreading out to search the building,” Seabrook adds. “Assemble your teams and prepare a search pattern.”

They turn away to loom over Lieutenant Bollig at one of the control stations.

“So the first order of business is figuring out if anything here is going to kill us… or erupt face-hugger style and plant its eggs in us,” Patrick announces as he watches the commanders leave.

“The MALP said--” Toews begins, but Patrick waves his hand.

“I know what the MALP said, but there have been mistakes before. Remember the slime thing?”

Patrick sure as hell remembers. That was only Captain Lupul's, like, _third_ time off-world as team leader and Patrick had been on the rescue team sent in. At least they'd managed to pull most of SG-13 out, even if Sergeant Kessel had insisted on throwing Sergeant Bozak over her shoulder in a fireman carry and parading him through the gate, much to her brother's embarrassment.

Toews pulls a face and whirls off, jabbing at his tablet.

 

* * *

  

“Major Kane,” Lieutenant Whitney calls from down the hallway to the right. “You need to see this.”

It’s been Geno’s experience that this phrase, at least off-world, does not lead to great things. He wasn’t actually on the team that found the slime monster, but he’d read the overly graphic mission reports that came back.

“Holy shit!” Kane shouts, and Geno immediately brings his weapon up. He can see everyone else in the gate room freeze, and he motions to Price and Shaw to move to the low-ready position and follow him.

They stick close to the wall in file formation until they come upon a pair of pocket doors halfway down the hall. Geno motions Price and Shaw ahead of him, and they set up to enter the room; Price goes high, P-90 trained on the opposite side of the room, and Shaw goes low, doing the same. They spin inside and Geno can see the moment their posture drops from defensive into relaxed.

“Wow,” Price says as Geno follows him in. He’s staring at the bank of windows that covers the far side of the wall. Whitney, Master Sergeant Johnson, and Specialist Hall are standing with Major Kane, whose face is pressed against the-- glass? Whatever the Ancients used, anyway.

On the other side of that glass is a whole lot of what looks like water.

“Are we-- are we underwater?” Shaw mutters, stepping up to Kane to peer out of the glass. It's murky, but Geno thinks he can see a few shapes floating past.

“Is the whole _planet_ underwater?” Hall speaks up.

“No,” Kane finally says. “Look down there. Those are definitely walking paths and roads.” He points down and to the right of one of the spoke-like piers emanating from the high tower they’re in now.

“Is-- is energy shield hold water?” Geno asks, pointing upwards. There’s a sort of yellow-shimmer glow to the sky that extends down past the horizon and could definitely be the visual signature of a shield.

“So, we’re trapped on an alien planet, there are no ZPMs, and the whole city is underwater,” Sharp summarizes as he wanders into the room, Toews right behind him. “It’s not an SGC-sanctioned mission until the odds of survival are nil.”

“Well,” Kane turns away from the window, “if the shield is up, then the city is probably underwater for a reason. It wasn’t just, like, sunk. So we can work from there.”

“You think there’s something here worth preserving?” Toews asks, speculative. Kane nods, and Toews’ frown lightens by about three degrees.

“I need all SGA teams ready to execute room-to-room clearances,” Kane says to Shaw. To Sharp he says, “If any of your scientists needs to leave the gate room for any reason, go in pairs. Make sure at least one person is an ATA carrier.”

Sharp gives a mock salute and steps away to begin what Geno knows is the arduous task of corralling the scientists.

“Know what you’re looking for?” Whitney asks, unclipping his P-90.

“I need to know more of the city layout, I need to know if there’s a Chair and weapons that are controlled by it, and I need to confirm we’re alone. Just because there were no lifesigns on the reader doesn’t mean there’s nobody here,” Kane lists off. “I'm taking Shawzy, Price, and Fleury on a leader's recon, and I want constant radio contact. Teams geared up and ready in fifteen, moving out as soon as I get back. No touching stuff, and don’t shoot anything unless you absolutely have to.”

He gives a considering look to Toews.

“You coming, Dr. Toews?” His grin slides back onto his face. “You could stay with Dr. Sharp, if that’s more your speed.”

Toews startles for a second; he’d been staring intently out the window at the city below them. He gives himself a little shake and Geno can see the moment his shoulders set.

“And let you dipshits break something vital?” Toews scowls. “Gimme a clip and try not to activate any self-destruct systems.”

 

* * *

 

Whoever decorated this place, Patrick thinks, had a real dedication to the theme. Everything is faux stainless steel and glass in greys and dark, muted primary colors, with lots of rounded corners and an almost organic feel. He takes the team further down that hallway and they emerge into a large circular space, facing bays of what look like elevator doors. The recon hadn’t revealed much except an assurance that they were alone on this particular floor.

“No beaming?” Toews asks, head craned back to search the ceiling for any sort of device.

“Guess not,” Patrick shrugs. The lights have been turning on pretty reliably as soon as someone enters a room, so he figures bio-activation might work for the mechanical stuff, too, and steps up to the panel on the wall between pairs of doors.

“ _Elevator on_ ,” he tries even though it makes Toews snort derisively, and when nothing happens he reaches out to poke one of the square buttons. They’re marked with what is clearly Ancient writing.

It immediately lights up.

“You read this?” Patrick asks over his shoulder to Giroux, who nods.

“Yeah, they’re numbers,” Giroux says. “Probably floors... and I think you just sent that one all the way to the ground.”

“Well, shit,” Patrick sighs. Maybe he should have learned Ancient when Dr. Jackson offered to tutor him before he left. Then he wouldn’t have to bring one of the anthros with him wherever he went. “Why are the numbers on the outside?”

“Near gate room,” Malkin offers. “Is security? Control all.”

“Yeah, probably,” Giroux nods. “In case of lockdown or something.”

“Well, find one of these buttons that brings an elevator to me,” Patrick says. Giroux steps up next to him and Toews leans over his other shoulder, so close that the kevlar plates in their tac-vests clink together. Christ, Toews is breathing on him a lot. At least he's had the courtesy to tone down that Axe body spray, although he smells a little bit like those over-sweet preservatives that give the MRE Hooah bars a plastic-y taste.

Malkin, who seems to be the only one who hasn’t forgotten what it means to be tactical, is watching their six.

“Try that one,” Giroux suggests, pointing to a symbol that could almost be a ‘W’. Patrick presses it and there’s a low thrum from behind a door to his left. After a few seconds it opens, and they all jam inside. There isn’t exactly enough room for four people in full combat gear, but Patrick’s definitely been in closer quarters with worse people, so it’s fine. He does have Giroux’s elbow digging into his shoulder, though.

Giroux makes another humming sound and peers around Malkin at the panel on the inside wall. There are little plaques next to each floor, and he tells Malkin to press a button on the third row down. “I think it should be admin offices,” he says. Patrick nods.

They spill out on a floor that looks to be about halfway down the tower, if what Patrick can see out the windows is any indication. They do find several rooms that seem like they could have been offices; they have furniture similar to desks and chairs and they’re not much bigger than most on-base quarters. They also locate a few conference rooms, and a larger room with something like a podium in it.

They don’t turn up any ZPMs, but they also don’t turn up any life forms or alien egg hatcheries. Pat figures they have to call it a draw. He and Toews return to the elevators while Malkin and Giroux finish searching the last rooms.

“One Actual to all teams,” Patrick says into his comm. “Regroup in the gateroom.”

“Well, that was a big waste of--”

“Major!” Giroux shouts from a room to their left, muffled through the wall. When the elevator doors ping open behind them, Patrick just shoves Toews in. It’s a reflex from years of off-world missions with civilians who usually didn’t come back.

“Go back to the gate,” he orders, and watches the doors slide shut on Toews’ protests.

“What is it?” Patrick calls out, joining Malkin and Giroux.

“Look what your boy found,” Giroux motions over to where Malkin is standing next to a very large grey sphere and it’s--

“Is that a map of _Pegasus_?” Patrick asks, taken aback by the three-dimensional hologram spinning and taking up most of that side of the room. There are hundreds of yellow points of light, and one star system is at the center of the map. He looks over at Malkin, who has his hands raised in the universal ‘wasn’t me’ gesture.

“Only close,” he says. “I’m not touch.”

“But you’ve got the gene, right?” Giroux asks, his eyes narrowed. Malkin nods. “I think,” Giroux begins slowly, “that everything here responds to someone with the gene. I don’t have it and nothing happened for me, but Evgeni--”

Malkin’s nose wrinkles and he insists, “ _Geno!_ ”

“--has a strong expression of it, and everything’s working for him.”

“I thought the gene was only necessary to operate important equipment like the Chair,” Patrick counters. This whole mission was going to be difficult if he had to have one carrier for every non-carrier at all times. There weren’t even that many of them to start with.

“Maybe once everything’s started up, all the primary systems, then non-carriers could use the secondary ones,” Gioux suggests. “But the gene activation was originally a safeguard to stop Ancient technology from falling into the wrong hands. I don’t think it would be any different in the home of the Ancients.”

“Well, we have a lot of non-carriers so-- _oh shit_ ,” Patrick can feel his eyes go comically wide as he processes Giroux’s idea. He books it out of the room and down to the elevator, pounding on the call button.

The doors click open and Toews rushes out, barreling right into Patrick.

“Hey, hey, Toews-- I got you,” Patrick soothes, grabbing Toews by the webbing on his tac-vest and pulling him in. He looks a little wild around the eyes and he’s sweating kind of a lot.

“Never do that again,” Toews gasps, taking deep but ineffectual breaths. “The lights went out and I couldn’t get anything to respond.”

“Yeah, that’s my bad,” Patrick says. He sweeps the damp hair from Toews’s forehead with his palm and smoothes it down, cupping the back of his neck. Toews squeezes hard where his hands are gripping Patrick’s waist and then lets go, pushing away. He shoots Patrick a dirty look when Giroux and Malkin join them in the hallway.

Toews doesn’t say much to him on the ride back to the gateroom but later, when they break for chow, Patrick tosses the jalapeno cheese spread _and_ a wheat snack bread from his MRE into Toews’s lap. Toews doesn’t throw them back at his head, so he must understand a gesture of friendship when he sees one.

 

* * *

  

While Patrick and his team come up with a big zero on the search, the other teams have somewhat more success. Lieutenant Whitney finds a large observation deck, Shawzy finds a big hall with rows of tables to serve as a mess, Major Fleury finds the aircraft hangar, and Captain Price finds the power room.

“I could kiss you,” Patrick sighs when Price reports.

“Sir, I’m a ride you wouldn’t survive,” Price says dryly. Patrick waves him off, staring at a couple of banks of computer consoles and a ZPM in a console dock. He knows it’s mostly empty -- his scientists have been pretty vocal about that-- but Toews and Sharp brought a lot of naquadah equipment as a stopgap, and if they can rewire stuff to run off of the generators then they can restore power to the city. Power to the city means searchable databases and deep-space scanners. It helps stave off the subdued mood of the teams, who came to Atlantis to find basically nothing.

“I’m serious,” Patrick says, taking in the rows and rows of equipment. “Gold star in your report. I’ll write to your mom and Captain Subban.”

 

* * *

 

Jonny’s excitement at finding a ZPM in an interface actually built to house it, instead of being rigged on the fly, turns out to be short-lived. He’s trying to stay positive in the face of a mostly depleted energy supply, because contrary to the scrawlings on the toilet walls back on base, he isn’t so tightly clenched he could make diamonds. Murphy’s Law is alive and well, because they’ve only been on Atlantis for a couple of hours when the shield begins to fail.

The gate is in the Central Tower, and five piers stick out from the base like spokes, with buildings of varying heights on each. Kane’s reluctant to send teams onto the piers in case they have trouble getting back, and as the shield starts to crumble, Jonny grudgingly admits this is a good idea.

Jonny and Sharp are in the power room examining the control panels and the ZPM hookup when the whole room begins to shake.

“Something you did?” Sharp asks, grabbing onto a console and trying not to tumble to the floor.

“Definitely not,” Jonny snaps, and then it’s too loud to talk for about twenty seconds. When the trembling stops, their earpieces crackle to life.

“All teams, report!” Patrick shouts.

SGA-2, 3 and 4 reply with all present and accounted for. SGA-5 takes almost too long.

“One Actual, this is Five Actual,” Fleury’s voice finally crackles over the radio. “You are needed at our location. Pier three is now exposed.”

Jonny and Sharp share a look as Kane lets out a well-deserved curse on the encrypted frequency.

 ~

Jonny’s not wholly unprepared for what he discovers; he and Sam Carter had discussed it before they left. He knew it was a possibility, but there’s just a little twinge in his gut when he confirms that the naquadah generators they brought aren’t going to be able to power the gate or the shield.

“They power the gate on _Earth_ ,” Kane says, exasperated. They’re clustered around an office that overlooks the gate, in one of the bi-hourly update meetings of the senior staff.

“But the gates are usually meant to be powered by ZPMs,” Jonny explains to the room. “General Carter modified the one on Earth to run on naquadah.”

“How long will it take to convert it?” Keith asks.

Jonny and Sharp share a grim look. Seabrook looks dour as well.

“A day, at least,” Jonny says. Sharp nods to confirm.

“And how long will the shields last?” Keith steeples his fingers like he already knows he won’t like the answer.

“Less than a day.”

“Have we ruled out other ZPMs in the city?” Shaw asks.

“There’s nothing even close to matching the energy signature of a ZPM,” Sharp says.

“I wish we could get a patrol into the rest of the city,” Keith says wistfully. Kane, too, has a faraway look in his eyes like he wishes he could be shooting something _right now._

“The rest of the city is underwater,” Jonny says, and even manages to keep most of the sneer out of it.

“Doesn’t mean there isn’t something living there that we didn’t see,” Kane says curtly. He must have some kind of superpower, Jonny decides, because every two hours Jonny’s urge to punch him in the face rises to unseen levels.

Dr. Eberle, who had remained mostly silent in the handful of meetings preceding this one, speaks up. “I think our priority should be finding a new ZPM. I can barely draw enough power from the generators to run basic med equipment. If we run into serious trouble, I’m not sure how many people I could save.”

“We’re _already_ in serious trouble,” Jonny points out. “The shields are going to fail soon, and those who don’t drown will be crushed by the extreme water pressure.”

Keith looks speculative, glancing between Kane and Shaw. “How soon can you have an expedition force ready?”

His officers share a look. “An hour,” Kane finally says.

“The shields are only going to fail faster if we use the ZPM for gate travel!” Jonny protests.

“How many dialings could we get out of it?” Keith presses, and Jonny considers lying, if only briefly. He takes a minute, but eventually mutters, “Maybe five, depending on how far away each gate is -- and _only_ in Pegasus.”

“And that is not a smart use of our resources,” Sharp interjects. For once, Jonny finds himself nodding along.

“Well,” Seabrook says slowly, “it seems like stay or go, we still get pretty wet. I’m not really seeing our best option.”

“There isn’t a best option yet,” Jonny confesses. “I’m working on it.” He wants to scrub his palms over his face to let out some tension, but he doesn’t want to show his nerves in front of everybody. Why is no one listening to him? He can get them out of this.

“Okay,” Keith concludes, “you have an hour to come up with something better. Major Kane, prep your off-world team.”

 ~

Kane comes to see him with fifteen minutes left on the clock.

“Saved us yet?” he asks, rearranging all the pens at Jonny’s workspace. They’re in one of the larger conference rooms that Jonny has turned into a makeshift lab.

“Have _you_?” Jonny retorts. He slides the paper he had been skimming on theoretical re-application of thermodynamics to naquadah energy to the bottom of the pile. So far, the SGC papers have been unhelpful.

“Nah,” Kane says, perching his hip on a desk. “Wondering if you’d like to come with us?”

Jonny blinks a few times. “I’ve already been assigned to SGA-1,” he says, confused. It’s Kane’s turn to scowl.

“Yeah,” Kane says, spinning a planisphere on the desk, “but that was on _Earth_. Back there, O’Neill can say whatever he wants. Out here, what I say goes. And I’m officially asking you if you want to join my team.”

“Why?” Jonny narrows his eyes. Kane’s tried on no fewer than three occasions to test his citrus allergy by sneaking lemon Jell-O onto his tray under the Mountain. If it weren’t for Corporal Oshie keeping an eye out, he’d probably be dead by now.

“Because Seabrook might have implied that great bodily harm would come to me if I let anything happen to you,” Kane admits. “C’mon, Giroux has a list of translated addresses from Dr. Jackson.”

“Who else is going?” Jonny asks.

“SGA-1, 2, 3 and 5,” Kane replies. “And we keep rotating until the power runs out. We find another ZPM or we die.”

He sounds so matter-of-fact that it throws Jonny for a second. He’s always found that military types could be sufficiently cowed by big words and a lot of huffing, but Kane hasn’t fallen for the old tricks and shows no signs he’s going to. Jonny must admit, at the very least, to having a scientific curiosity.

“Maybe I want to join SGA-2,” he says, just to see the reaction. Kane’s turned his attention back to the knick-knacks on Jonny’s desk.

“I don’t think Specialist Hall has forgiven you yet for being so mean to him back on Earth.” He smirks, looking at Jonny from under his lashes while still fiddling with Jonny's MIT Alumni Association paperweight.

Jonny's never seen Kane's eyes this blue up close, and he flounders for a second, trying to affect nonchalance and instead resting his elbow on a pouch of Cheese Tortellini MRE entree he had forgotten about during lunch. Some pasta squirts out onto the floor.

“And SGA-1 is the best and the brightest?”

Kane smiles. “Would I be on it otherwise?”

“Give me ten to get ready, Major,” Jonny says, feeling something heavy settle in his stomach.

“Awesome. And, uh, call me Patrick. It’s important that we look friendly. You know, keep it together for the sake of the kids.”

Jonny raises an eyebrow, but he’s tired and does actually know how to pick his battles, regardless of what others may think, so he nods.

“Jonny, then,” he says, and watches Kane leave.

 

* * *

  

The best and the brightest consists of Patrick, Jonny, Dr. Giroux and the Russian. Patrick conveniently leaves that part out of the sales pitch.

“M2X-355,” Dr. Giroux reads from his tablet as the gate klaxons wail. “The Ancients talk about it a lot as a place of bounty.”

“And this bounty includes ZPMs?” Jonny narrows his eyes. He’s fiddling with the straps of his tac-vest while the gate room technicians mill around.

“It might.” Giroux shrugs. “Dr. Jackson and I put this list together; they’re the top five planets mentioned by the Ancient texts found on Earth.”

“Did you compensate for planetary drift?” Jonny demands.

“Of course,” Giroux dismisses. “Dr. Briere did the calculations himself.”

Jonny opens his mouth like he’s about to share just what he thinks of Dr. Briere’s calculations when the Central Tower is rocked by a rumble so intense that it knocks Patrick’s breath out.

“Pier Five is now exposed,” Lieutenant Galchenyuk says over the comm when the noise has died down. Seabrook, who has come along with Keith to see them off, sighs.

“I was thinking of moving my quarters to Pier Five.”

Keith gives him a small smile. “Well, it just got way more oceanfront.” He turns to Patrick, smile slipping off his face.

“Bring me a ZPM.”

“Yes, sir,” Patrick says, and Keith nods decisively.

Patrick moves back to his team, who have gathered near the gate, and tries to assess them. It’s an important step that will be easier once he knows them better, after a few missions and provided that Atlantis doesn’t become their watery grave.

Giroux will be alright, Patrick’s pretty sure, because he has almost as much off-world experience as Patrick himself and he’s managed to hold his own against Dr. Jackson, which is no easy feat. Malkin is the wildcard; Patrick’s read about his time in Afghanistan and how he’s frosty in the clutch, but he has next-to-no gate experience and it really is an entirely different game out there. His hands seem steady and he’s chatting lightly with Jonny’s RA, so Patrick’s not super worried.

His major cause for concern is the six-foot-two lump of nervous Canadian to his right, who’s shifting from foot to foot and brushing his thumb over the safety of his P-90 in an uneven rhythm. Patrick knows that Jonny has been off-world before, but he also knows that it hasn’t always been the smoothest affair -- particularly that time he accidentally sat on a prehistoric relic on P3X-043 and was sentenced to death. Patrick would like to avoid that this time around, if possible.

“Don’t worry, I have a plan,” he says, sidling up to Jonny.

“What is it?” Jonny says. Patrick can see that it’s certainly against his better judgement.

“It’s Napoleon's plan,” Patrick nods. “It’s got two parts. First we show up, then we see what happens.”

“That was his plan against the Russians?” Jonny’s eyebrows raise.

“Yes. Bad plan, we best,” Malkin pipes in from behind them, flashing a smile.

A second later the gate locks in a flash of blue-white light.

 

* * *

 

Geno’s not sure he’ll ever get used to gate travel.

It feels like cold fingers reaching into his belly and yanking his guts out, this overall vertigo that makes the back of his throat tickle. He had to go on almost a dozen milk runs back at the Mountain before he stopped vomiting immediately upon arrival. Ovechkin had laughed in his face every single time.

Gate travel in another galaxy turns out to be no better.

“This is the planet of bounty?” Toews snaps as he struggles to pull his right boot out of the mud. The gate is in the middle of what might have been a forest hundreds of thousands of years ago but is definitely now a swamp, at least as far as Geno can see in the golden light of late afternoon.

“I’m not saying the texts aren’t a little old,” Giroux shrugs. “But the Ancients do talk about this planet a lot. I think it was some kind of hub for Pegasus?”

“I think it’s a hub for malaria,” Toews mutters, smacking his own face to chase off a bug. Geno sincerely hopes they don’t all come down with some sort of space virus; the twelve-year-old in charge of handing out Band-Aids and aspirin seems unsuited to the task of curing them.

“If the old maps are correct,” Giroux continues, “There’s a city five klicks east of the gate.”

“Alright,” Kane says, stepping forward to look at the map Giroux’s pulled up on his tablet. “I want us in a wedge, traveling overwatch. A klick out, we’re going to switch to bounding.”

“OAKOC?” Giroux asks. Kane’s mouth sets into a line.

“No time, and nothing good from the MALP. We’re going to use terrain association. Pick a good handrail.”

Geno grits his teeth through the twinge of an oncoming headache trying to muddle through the real-time translation and figuring out the military terms.

“This means fuck all to me,” Toews says.

“If you see us shooting,” Kane offers, pulling a pair of yellow-mirrored Oakleys from his tac-vest, "just try to shoot in the same direction."

Toews scowls, but Geno notices that his fingers whiten on the grip of his P-90 when Kane turns away.

 

* * *

 

They hike for about half an hour before they run into any locals.

When they spot the man, Patrick motions them down into a prone position. They skulk in the marsh grass at the edge of the swamp for about ten minutes, observing.

He’s some kind of shepherd, that much is obvious from the sheep-like creatures he’s supervising, and he doesn’t seem to be armed. He’s wearing dark clothes that wrap around him.

“What do you think? Green?” Patrick asks, high-crawling over to Giroux’s position.

“Yeah, green,” Giroux nods, and Jonny watches with mounting unease as Patrick pops up out of the brush.

“Ahoy!” he shouts, and starts walking towards the man.

“There’s a pretty good chance this goes badly,” Giroux sighs, springing up to follow.

Jonny locks eyes with Lieutenant Malkin and they share the universally-understood look of ‘ _the fuck is going on here?_ ’ before scrambling to catch up.

“I’m Major Kane of the Tau’ri,” Patrick is explaining when Jonny reaches his side, “and this is my team.”

The shepherd just narrows his eyes, looking suspiciously at all of them.

“We... come in peace?” Patrick tries again. Jonny refrains from rolling his eyes, because absolutely _no one_ could have predicted that Patrick’s diplomacy skills would fail them.

“We traveled through the chappa’ai,” Giroux says, stepping forward. “We’re explorers from Earth.”

“I do not know where that is,” the man finally says.

“Why does he speak English?” Jonny bursts out, unable to contain himself. Patrick shoots him a dirty look but Jonny dismisses it with a wave of his hand.

“The Ancients seeded life in the Milky Way and Pegasus,” Giroux says over his shoulder, shrugging. “They’re responsible for almost all language families on Earth. And here, apparently.”

“Why are you here?” the man asks, sounding a little annoyed.

“We’re looking for the city of Toulash,” Patrick explains. “We thought it might be close to here.”

The shepherd shakes his head. “There are legends of such a thing, but it has not existed for many years.”

“ _Otlichnaya_ ,” Malkin mutters.

“Well, were it to exist, where would it be doing that?” Patrick presses. The man huffs.

“A ways away.” He gathers his overcoat around him. “But there is nothing there. The city of the ancestors is gone.”

“If I had a dollar...” Giroux says under his breath.

“And you should not be out so close to night,” the man continues. “There is no safety for you here. Is it not that way on your world?”

“You’d have to define ‘safe’,” Patrick says, before clapping his hands together. “Well, we should get going. A ways away, you said?”

The man stares at him for a beat before sighing, shoulders slumping. “Yes, that direction.” He points towards an unpaved road through the light underbrush in the forest. “But they watch the path at night. Be quick.”

“Who watches?” Patrick asks, and the man draws back, giving them a puzzled look. He turns away instead of answering.

“Good talk!” Patrick calls out, and then motions them into bounding overwatch.

 

* * *

 

The guy wasn’t lying, Patrick discovers. There’s a big clearing, certainly not city-sized, but no ruins or anything. Not enough to justify all the talk about it.

“Research suggests that the Ancients left Pegasus 400,000 years ago,” Giroux explains, walking the perimeter of the clearing and staring intently at his tablet. He’s got a small sonar device in his tac-vest and he’s analyzing the telemetry as they go. “That’s more than enough time for weather to bury an entire city.”

“But there are still people living here,” Jonny points out, following along and trying to read over Giroux’s shoulder. “Why would they abandon it?”

“Your guess is as good as mine,” Giroux shrugs. He rubs his palm over the nape of his neck where it shines with sweat. Patrick feels his skin prickle in sympathy, even though he’d managed to wrangle a shemagh off Shawzy before they left Atlantis; it’s tied around his neck under his tac-vest but at least it’s soaking up some of the sweat and stopping any chafing. He can also see a red-and-white checkered pattern around Malkin’s throat.

Patrick sends Jonny and Malkin to pull security as best they can while Giroux finishes scanning. He spends a few minutes reviewing the readouts and graphs before looking up, face grim.

“It’s not adding up,” Giroux says. “There’s definitely something down there and it’s pretty big. This might have been the city center. I’m sure we’d find a lot more stuff in the treeline. But,” he points to a series of dips in the sonar chart, “these ruins aren’t close to being high enough for an Ancient city.”

“So?” Patrick asks, leading Giroux to the cover of the treeline and motioning over the others.

“So, something happened. I think it was destroyed before the planet’s biosphere covered it,” Giroux says. “Something had enough juice to knock out an Ancient capital city.”

“Ugh,” Patrick scrubs his palms over his face. “Okay, bottom-line it for me. This isn’t good for us?”

“We’re way past ‘not good’ and into ‘pretty bad’.”

They make it back to the gate before it gets really dark, which the shepherd seemed to think was a good idea, but they come back empty-handed, which is not so great.

The only bright spot of the mission, as far as Patrick’s concerned, is that on the walk back one of the almost-sheep tries to bite Jonny on the ass.

 

* * *

 

No one actually finds any ZPMs, so Jonny doesn’t take the failure too personally.

The other teams get through four dialings; one to a desert, one to another swamp planet, one to a prairie, and one that’s actually underwater. That’s where the MALP really comes in handy. Giroux has one more address lined up as a ‘definite win’ but Jonny’s managed to convince Patrick that he’s needed in Atlantis with Sharp, so Major Fleury gives him a glare before leading his team through the gate again and Jonny heads down to the power room.

He finds Sharp on his back under one of the consoles to the left of the door. Three of the shielding panels are scattered on the floor around him. He’s probably been working on re-routing the system to run on naquadah, on the off-chance it could work.

“Anything new?” he asks.

“We have less power than we did when we started, as expected. There isn’t just spontaneously more power.” Sharp slides out and stands up as Jonny makes an unimpressed face. It’s one of his very favorite faces.

“Didn’t your parents ever warn you that your face could stay like that?” Sharp mutters, wiping his hands off on his pants and reaching over to dig through his ruck.

“Didn’t yours?” Jonny retorts. He’s not totally sure it lands, especially because Sharp just raises an eyebrow, but he thinks it’s decent because he doesn’t pretend to have majored in smugness, unlike some _other_ people he could name.

“Aw, be nice to me, To-ez, or I won’t share,” Sharp reprimands in his best patronizing voice, but Jonny doesn’t even care when he focuses on what Sharp’s pulled out: two clear plastic bags and two small tubes of Nescafe instant coffee.

“Where did you get those?” Jonny gasps. He reaches out to grab one but Sharp yanks them back, clutching them against his chest.

“They’re a present from Bur because he knew that the ones from the MREs just wouldn’t be enough to deal with you,” he says. “And you can have one if we can use your water.”

He jerks his head towards the corner and sure enough, Jonny’s ruck and his duffle are tossed haphazardly with their equipment. Jonny fishes through them while Sharp fits the clear bags into the oxidizing entree-heating pouch. He fills them and the pouch with water when Jonny comes back over with his canteens.

“Would it not be the fucking _worst_ if this was the last cup of coffee you ever had?” Sharp muses, after they’ve mixed up the water and coffee powder in the aluminum cups from their mess kits.

“You think it will be?” Jonny asks. Sharp shrugs with what seems to be genuine nonchalance.

“It’s not looking good,” he says, like maybe they’re talking about the weather. In a way they are, Jonny supposes; the forecast calls for everything to get spectacularly wet.

“We’ll be okay,” Jonny reassures him, because it feels like he should say _something_. He’s not as old as a lot of the guys he supervises but the IOA and Dr. Seabrook picked him for a reason, right? They must have thought he could handle it, and if there’s one thing Jonny enjoys, it’s surpassing expectations.

 

* * *

 

When the city begins to rumble constantly, rolling tremors that shake Jonny to his core, he’s forced to admit that they might not be okay.

“Need you for gate room,” Nail tells him, gripping the door frame to avoid toppling over during a particular violent quake. Sharp’s already disappeared to assist, so Jonny’s alone in the power room.

“I’m needed down here,” Jonny snaps, banging his shin against a naquadah generator. The diagnostic running on his tablet tells him they’re down to about one-percent power, which is roughly ninety-nine percent less power than he’d like to have.

“Major orders,” Nail says, and Jonny scowls some more. The Major is continuing to be a massive pain in his ass, especially when it comes to matters like their imminent and painful deaths.

“I’ll be up in a minute,” Jonny says, although it turns out that they don’t have a minute -- maybe twenty seconds after Nail leaves, the rumbling turns from an every-few-minutes thing into an all-the-time thing and Jonny’s nearly thrown to the floor with the force of it.

“What the fuck is happening down there, Jonny?” Patrick shouts over the comm.

“We’re out of power!” Jonny responds. “The shield is failing!” He glances down at the dozen generators surrounding him, but there’s no time to try anything. If he’s being honest, there was never going to be enough time to convert the gate before the ZPM failed, not even with Sharp and Jonny working together.

“Does that make us the band playing on the Titanic?” Fleury asks, voice tinny in Jonny’s earpiece. “With the water rushing in?”

“I think that makes us the Titanic,” Whitney says. Jonny grits his teeth through Shaw and Biz’s staticky chorus of “My Heart Will Go On”.

“In the interest of posterity, this is not what I want our final moments to sound like,” Patrick says. “Maybe someone could say some inspirational words?”

Jonny lies down under a desk and tries to think through the rattle of the tremors. It’s stupid, but he’s-- he’s _panicking_ , about to die alone on the floor of some alien city. This was not how the government suits had promised his career would go down. He’s the one who stays behind, solves the hard problems and makes solid strategies; the frontlines are for people like Patrick and Shaw, who have more courage than sense.

He tamps down on his swirling emotions but can’t quite squash the one that wishes Nail hadn’t gone back up to the gateroom. He doesn’t even know the guy well, between the language barrier and the silence demanded by the high concentration needed for their work, but... he wouldn’t even mind having Sharpy around right now.

That should tell him how truly ridiculous he’s being.

“Well gentlemen, it’s been a privilege playing with you tonight,” Biz sighs.

“I think my one regret,” Lieutenant Bollig says, “is that Major Shaw never got to draw me like one of his French girls.”

“There’s still time,” Shaw says with an audible leer, and Jonny wants to throw his earpiece across the room.

The quaking intensifies and Jonny scrapes his fingers across the tiled floor. There’s always another way, he knows that, and he just has to figure it out. He can’t hear the rush of water or the crunch of metal so he’s still got time, if he works hard enough there’s still a way out--

A huge boom rocks the city, and Jonny squeezes his eyes shut.

 

* * *

 

Patrick doesn’t want to die in Atlantis, but if his years on SG-3 have taught him anything, it’s that you don’t really get a choice. About a week after he watched Sergeant Valente have her face blown off by a Jaffa staff blast, he’d adopted the motto ‘If you’re born to hang, you’ll never drown’ and it’s served him pretty well. Allows him to sleep at night, at least.

So, all in all, he knows they could be facing a worse exit than this one.

“What’s our power situation?” Keith asks Sharp, who’s standing stiffly next to him in the gate room.

“Empty,” Sharp replies.

“No naquadah?”

Sharp shakes his head, and Keith turns to Shawzy. “Where are our people? Everybody’s contained in the Tower?”

“Yessir,” Shawzy nods. “SGA-2 was on the ground floor but I recalled them.”

“I should have thought of some really good words for this, I guess,” Patrick sighs, looking around. Everyone’s keeping the veneer of calm, which he appreciates, although some scientists have wild eyes and some of his guys are clenching their fists pretty tight.

Seabrook and Keith are standing together, looking grim. They’d already given an “Earth is proud of your sacrifice” speech across the comms a few moments earlier and are talking quietly with Dr. Hossa and a few of the younger grunts.

“One of your many failings of leadership, Peeks,” Sharpy smiles, although it looks a little strained.

“I hope the historians come up with something appropriately moving for me,” Patrick agrees, and the city shakes harder than ever.

 

* * *

 

Geno’s almost died a bunch of times and most of them were for dumber reasons than trying to save the planet, so he manages to brush this one off.

None have been as anti-climatic as this, though.

He'd gone to one of the glass-walled rooms on the gate floor with Yakupov and Galchenyuk after Kane had announced that things weren’t getting any better and they should take some moments to themselves. It wasn't that he was homesick or anything, but if this really was the end then he wanted to spend his final minutes with people who could actually understand what the hell he was saying. They are few and far between on this mission.

They're shaken to the floor after a series of huge blasts, but instead of the crush of water, what he feels is a sharp pressure in his ears, an ache like when he’s on an airplane.

“Is the city moving?” Galchenyuk asks in Russian, pushing himself onto his knees and squinting out the window. It’s hard to tell through the dark water and the confusion of the city rattling, but... it could be.

“What the hell is this?” Yakupov mutters back, staring up as the water gets brighter and brighter.

Geno doesn’t even know what to say, just watches as their window breaks the surface of the water and the shield flickers out.

 

* * *

 

“So that’s it?” Patrick asks at their next department meeting, trying not to think about how relieved he is that they’re even _having_ another meeting.

“It must have been a failsafe,” Jonny says, shoulders tense. “When the shield lost power, the city rose. It was irresponsible of us not to have considered something like this sooner. The Ancients had plans for everything.”

“I think we can let this oversight slide,” Seabrook says, but Jonny frowns.

“No,” he insists, “it sets up a pattern of lazy thinking.”

“Not everything is about being as efficient as possible,” Patrick responds, eyes narrowing. Jonny huffs and Seabrook cuts him off.

“We can all be forgiven for not thinking clearly in that situation,” he soothes. “The people on our expedition are the best and we won’t let it happen again.”

That seems to placate Jonny for now, so Patrick backs down too.

“So, what’s next?” Seabrook asks.

“We’re gonna need a ZPM and some gene carriers to get anything done around here, so let’s start with that,” Keith says. “And Dr. Toews -- get that gate running on naquadah.”

 

* * *

 

Brent and Duncan decide to walk around the newly surfaced perimeter, sticking close to the rest of the expedition. Duncan has a P-90 strapped to his chest and Brent’s hands are on his tablet. There’s a pistol tucked into the small of his back, but the recoil of the gun hurts his shoulders.

“So, we’re alive,” Brent says after a few minutes, while he stops to take a photo to send to engineering -- most of the external structure they’ve seen is intact, but there’s some damage; evidence of a firefight at some point in the past.

“Yep,” Duncan says, tapping his fingers along his rifle. “Where was Toews?”

Brent shrugs. “In his lab thing, I think. Nail was with the Russians, and Kane was with us. I think Toews was trying for a Hail Mary.”

Duncan snorts and bumps shoulders with him.

“If anyone could do it, it’s him.”

“Sucks about the ZPM’s, not finding any worth a damn here,” Duncan says, after a pause.

“We knew it’d be a long shot. At least we’re not dead and get the chance to go looking for ‘em?” Brent asks.

“True. You don’t really get to appreciate being alive until you almost drown less than 24 hours into a new mission,” Duncan says.

Brent nods and turns his face to the sun, relaxed and happy. Judging by the smile on Duncs’ face, he’s not the only one.

 

* * *

 

It’s been two days since the Almost Death That Wasn’t, and the place is _alive_.

There isn’t really any other way to describe how everyone’s fanned out. The engineering department is working with the military to fix superficial damage, while pulling double shifts to help Toews and Sharp with the naquadah generators. The botanists and archeologists working to set up greenhouses in one of the labs, and it's easily the happiest anyone has been since the expedition was announced back on Earth.

Seabrook and Keith cut back from hourly meetings to twice-daily, and Jordan is beyond grateful for that. Though it had been necessary at the beginning, it was becoming more troublesome to drop whatever he was doing down in the medical bays, to run to their offices and report that nobody had died in the fifty-five minutes since he last saw them.

It was especially inconvenient because it kept him from his work on artificial gene therapy, which both Keith and Toews told him was "very important." They even used their matching dead-eyed stare to do it.

His background is genetics and gene therapy, and that’s probably no small part of why he was picked for this gig in the first place, aside from his willingness to take calls from the SGC. After what happened to Dr. Frazier, that list was pretty short. He’d thought his age and inexperience might count against him, but apparently the IOA valued him enough to hire a private jet to ship him and all his gear from Edmonton. They even gave him an assistant in Nail Yakupov, one of the Russians who was working on his own PhD; groundbreaking stuff in viral delivery systems.

His first patient of the day is Specialist Hall, wandering through the med bay with a blue shirt clutched around his hand.

“What happened?” Jordan asks. Hall opens the shirt to show a large laceration cutting across the palm of his hand.

“Was helping some of the engineers and cut myself. Probably needs stitches,” he shrugs.

Jordan’s seen Hall’s files; the kid is accident-prone, to put it lightly, and Jordan’s already stitched him up four times back on Earth.

“If I didn’t know any better, you were getting injured on purpose just to see me. We can’t keep meeting like this,” Jordan says, reaching for the iodine solution and a bulb syringe as Hall sits on the edge of a gurney. He goes bright pink and Jordan laughs.

“I’m just kidding,” he says, swiping down the area. When he darts a look upwards, Hall’s smile is back in force as he watches Jordan stitch him up.

Jordan and Hall have seen a lot of each other, even back on Earth. Hall is a carrier for the Ancient gene but doesn’t express it, which makes him a prime candidate for the therapy Jordan’s pioneering. Toews is particularly interested in any successes; he claims it’s because he’s tired of waiting for a carrier to activate something he’s studying, but Jordan’s pretty sure he’s just mad that he can’t _give_ himself the gene through hard work and determination.

“See you at 0800 tomorrow for the gene treatment, provided we don’t all die today?” Jordan asks as he swipes the area again to clean up the red-brown iodine.

“Anything for you, doc,” Hall smiles, bright.

 

* * *

 

In the gate room, Giroux and Biz tell them they’ve found their next "sure thing", from the pieces of the dialing database they've been able to crack.

“M2X-871. It’s called Voin, and the Ancients talk about it being home to an advanced race of warriors,” Giroux explains to the team. “They speak explicitly of them having a ZPM, gifted to them after helping the Ancients defeat some... evil. They reference this particular evil a lot, but we’re having problems translating.”

Giroux’s mouth is pinched but Biz seems upbeat, slapping Patrick on the shoulder as Giroux glances down to sift through the notes on his tablet.

“You’re sure they’ve got a ZPM?” Seabrook asks, and Giroux looks up and nods.

“There’s no mistaking the translations. The Ancients gave them one, so unless they’ve depleted it..."

“Alright,” Keith says. He gives Patrick the go-ahead hand signal, so Patrick nods towards Giroux and Malkin, giving a little tug on Jonny’s sleeve. They’ve gotta gear up.

“Who knows, you might come back with an Amazon hottie. Make sure she’s got wicked thighs!” Biz yells after them.

 

* * *

 

Jonny stands in front of the gate, an acceptable distance away from the puddle splashback as Bollig begins the dial sequence.

“I really hope those bastards haven’t used it all,” Giroux says, tapping down his vest pockets and drumming his fingers along the stock of his rifle.

“You ready, gentlemen?” Bollig calls over the comms, and they all give the thumbs up and watch as the last chevron locks into place and the wormhole activates.

“M2X-871, boys. Don’t come back without a ZPM and my Amazon princess!” Bissonnette says, and Patrick snorts as he strides forward.

Giroux, on the other hand, doesn’t find it so amusing. “Knowing our luck, there’ll be no ZPM and we bring back an asshole.”

Jonny just grits his teeth as his own litany starts up in his head, the closer they get to the pulsating blue glow.  _Please, please, please._

 

* * *

 

So far, Patrick thinks M2X-871 is looking good. They came through the gate into an open field that had obviously been landscaped and there’s a paved road leading off into the distance, so hopefully they waltz right into a nicely preserved city and can trade for the ZPM or, like, a ZPM timeshare. The only downside is that a light rain had started almost as soon as they arrived.

Pat’s got Giroux to his right, Jonny to his left, and Malkin on the flank of the wedge, heads on a swivel and boots crunching lightly on the underbrush. They haven’t met anyone yet, which is a little strange for such an obviously populated area, but it’s not unprecedented.

He’s not really worried until they come within spitting distance of a large city gate and immediately take heavy fire to the left.

“One-eighty degrees, twenty-five meters, go!” he calls out, directing the squad back to a small drainage ditch they had lept over. They zig and zag all the way back, flopping onto their bellies in the ditch. They’re bunched too tightly together but Patrick doesn’t have time to mention it.

“What the hell?” Jonny shouts, pressing his face into the dirt of the embankment.

“Doc, what’s the fuckin’ situation here?” Patrick asks, turning to Giroux. Giroux’s eyes have hardened and he’s double-checking his vest for extra clips.

“Dunno, Major, tablets don’t say anything about hostilities," he says, "but I also didn’t expect they would just hand us the ZPM. Maybe we’re not the only ones looking for it.”

“This is no way to treat your guests!” Patrick shouts. He leans over Giroux as best he can, keeping his cheek pressed to the doctor’s back, to check on Malkin. “You good? No blood?”

“Good,” Malkin replies. He seems okay, posture tight but not tense and eyes bright.

“Then we need to spread out,” Patrick orders, shoving lightly at Giroux’s shoulder. “One grenade could take us all out.”

Malkin nods and begins sliding away but Jonny huffs, so Patrick slithers down to the deepest part of the ditch and low-crawls through the mud and over to him. He pulls himself up next to Jonny and into his personal space.

“Remember what we talked about before we left?” He presses his face into the clammy skin of Jonny's neck and shouts to be heard over the sound of gunfire. “You keep me from gating into a black hole, and I keep you from being torched at the stake in a town square. So start moving!”

Jonny pulls back to glare but begins to inch further down along the berm. Patrick looks back and sees that Giroux has shuffled a little bit in Malkin’s direction; Geno’s moved so far so quickly that he’s disappeared into the brush.

Well, at least one person in this gagglefuck is capable of following orders and keeping himself safe.

 

* * *

 

Geno honestly doesn’t see it coming. Not the part where they’re taking heavy fire, he’s been waiting for that since they first arrived in Atlantis. It’s almost a relief to have it out of the way; having everyone being friendly kept him on edge, waiting for the other shoe to drop.

What he doesn’t expect is to slide into some light shrub cover to their immediate right and come face-to-face with a dark-haired guy who looks just as surprised as Geno is. He has wide, hazel eyes and really red lips, and that’s the best look Geno gets at him before the guy swings the stock of his rifle into Geno’s temple.

By the time he manages to shake out of the murky blackness in his head, they’ve moved inside the city -- or, that’s where Geno assumes they are when he wakes up on the dusty floor of a dark room. It’s large enough that he can see people standing near the edges but can’t make out any features. Kane and Toews are to his left, peeking through a blown-out window, while Giroux and the guy from the woods are sitting cross-legged near a small pile of equipment.

There’s broken glass all over the floor and the paint is chipped and blackened. Whatever furniture was there is now gone, but on the bright side there are a number of large guys holding rifles -- this particular bright side also looks a lot like the dark side.

“How’s the head?” Kane asks when he notices that Geno is awake.

“Hurts but not bad, don’t think?” Geno says, pushing himself into a sitting position. He goes slowly in case one of the guys with weapons gets twitchy.

“Definitely not how you treat guests,” Kane mutters, glancing over at Giroux. Geno follows his stare and sees Giroux frowning, making an animated hand gesture while the guy frowns back.

“What happen?” Geno asks. Kane sets his shoulders and Toews turns back to the window.

“These are the Scotians,” Kane introduces, spreading his arms to indicate the guys around them. “They’ve been under attack for a while from somebody and they’re not a hundred percent convinced we don’t have something to do with that. Hence, our current situation.”

That’s not the most helpful explanation Geno’s ever heard, but it’s the one he’s got, so.

“Okay,” Giroux announces, brushing his pants off and standing. “Huddle up, team.” He comes over and takes a knee in front of them. Kane mirrors his position but Jonny just sits down.

“That over there,” Giroux points, “is Commander Crosby. He’s in charge of the remaining forces of the Scotian Army, although given the state of this fight, I think they’re more like the Scotian Resistance at this point.” He holds his hands up and shrugs. “The enemy that they’re fighting travels through the Stargates in ships, so they monitor the area to engage in guerilla activity. That’s how they met us.”

“What’s their force strength?” Kane asks, mouth pressed into a thin line.

“You’re looking at it,” Giroux shrugs. “Most of the population, civilian and military, has been carried off in those ships.” His eyes soften for a moment. “This fight’s over, Major. If those other guys wanted the ZPM then they’ve got it by now, and if they didn’t, we can’t stick around to find out what they _do_ want.”

“Yeah, well, what’s he wanna do with us?” Kane jerks his head back to Crosby.

“Says he’s not interested in killing us, but he definitely doesn’t buy that we’re not connected to the enemy,” Giroux says. “Maybe try to con some intel, then execute us?”

“Eh, it’s not a bad plan,” Kane shrugs. “So how do we get out of it?”

“Don’t know,” Giroux says. “He says we’re not prisoners but I’m not sure how true that would turn out to be if one of us started heading for the door.”

“Let’s play along for now,” Kane says, voice low. “They can’t stay here forever, and when they move, we’ll break for the gate.”

Geno gives a tight nod and Giroux follows suit. Toews looks a little seasick but he gives Kane a slap on the shoulder, so Geno figures he’s in.

They don’t have to wait long.

Geno, laying back on the floor to rest for as long as he can, hears a whine like a mosquito, like a high-pitched engine, and suddenly the Scotians are moving into place along the walls.

“Stay behind us,” Crosby hisses, “and whatever you do, don’t get caught in the light.”

Geno has maybe a minute to process whatever the hell that means before neon beams of blue light slice through the darkness. Kane reaches out and pulls Toews away from the window a second before the light cuts through where he was standing.

“They’ve definitely got a read on us!” Crosby shouts to a guy who’s probably his second-in-command. “Head for the safe house!”

Then there are guys hustling Geno up and onto his feet, arms hooked under his elbows. They head down a short hallway, into another room, and then out a door in the back and down a flight of stairs. They take several twists and turns and end up in a narrow alleyway.

A light-haired guy gives Geno a shove in the direction of the street behind him and Geno starts running. He doesn’t know where anyone else from SGA-1 is, and truth be told, he isn’t particularly concerned; they’ll either be at the gate or they won’t, and Geno has to focus on the Scotians and the people in the ships.

They burst out of the alley onto what looks like a main street, lined with blown-out storefronts and offices, and Geno gets another shove to his right. He figures he should probably try for the gate while he’s still able to sort of orient himself, but just as he’s getting ready to bolt to the left a beam of light cuts across their group. It widens into a cone and Geno and the blond guy are the only ones who manage to dive out of the way. The others disappear into the light.

“Move!” the guy shouts, and Geno dives through the shattered display window of a store, high-crawling further into the back. He can feel the slivers of glass digging into his elbows and his thighs where they scrape across the ground, can feel the slickness of blood on his palms, but he keeps pushing, keeps his head down as far as possible.

He manages to crawl to a counter at the back of the store and pushes himself onto his aching hands and knees, shuffling to a door to his left. He slams it shut behind him and stands, eyes struggling in the darkness, skimming his fingers across the wall until he finds door knob. This one leads him into another slim alley and he races in what he thinks is the direction of the city gate. He spills out into a broad street and runs face-first into Crosby.

“Fuck!” Crosby shouts, a little high-pitched. Geno stumbles back but doesn’t fall, grabbing onto Crosby’s waist for balance.

“Gate!” Geno yells. Gunfire rattles off closer than he’d like, matched by little whining pops. “Stargate! Ancestor circle! Whatever!”

He hooks one hand in the collar of Crosby’s uniform shirt and shakes him a little bit to make sure he’s got Crosby’s focus. Crosby’s gaze sharpens and he nods, booking it down the street and ducking into alleys and doorways as they go. It’s not an ideal situation for Geno but he doesn’t have a choice, so he follows Crosby a few blocks out of the city and into the surrounding treeline.

They crouch in the brush for cover, breathing hard. Geno keeps his head up to make a quick scan of their surroundings, and when he glances at Crosby he finds that Crosby’s staring right back at him with a peculiar look on his face.

“What?” Geno snaps, sounding crankier than he meant to. Crosby doesn’t say anything, just holds eye contact for a long moment and then reaches down to pull a pistol from his thigh-holster.

“Cover me?” he asks, holding the grip out towards Geno.

It’s not what Geno was expecting, really, but he’s not stupid enough to refuse a weapon; he’d take a slingshot at this point. He accepts the pistol, turning it over in his hand and flicking what he assumes is the safety. Crosby, watching closely, nods.

“Your friends going to meet you at the circle of the ancestors?” Crosby asks, jerking his head towards the road to the gate.

“Yes,” Geno says. “Go back to base.”

“Alright,” Crosby shifts into a crouch and pulls a large knife from his waistband. Geno doesn’t ask where his service weapon is. “I’ll get you there. We gotta stay off the road, though.”

Geno thought as much, so he’s prepared for when Crosby takes off into the forest, dodging trees and over streams and fallen logs so quickly that Geno might have had a problem keeping up if he were the kind of man to slack in his PT. They don’t run into anyone else on their way to the gate, although a couple of times Geno sees what he thinks are flashes of Scotian uniforms between the trees.

It’s hard to tell for sure in the murky darkness of no moonlight, though, so Geno tramples behind the light sounds of Crosby dashing through the brush.

 

* * *

 

Patrick’s quick to establish a perimeter at the gate, sending Jonny to dial home while Giroux takes up a security position. After the assault on their hideout the Scotians had split up, pushing them through one door and hustling Geno through another. Patrick had managed to corral most of his team but Malkin’s still missing -- Pat’s all set to regroup and head back for him, but the handful of Crosby’s guys that had followed them to the gate are firmly against it.

Once the shooting started, the Scotians were much more inclined to return SGA-1’s weapons. Patrick just feels better with a P-90 strapped to his chest; it’s a fact of life.

“How we doing, Jonny?” Patrick calls over his shoulder, keeping his eyes on the road.

“Thirty seconds!” Jonny calls back. “Gotta lock and send the IDC.”

“Tell ‘em we’re coming in hot!” Giroux adds, shifting his stance to be better hidden behind a tree.

The gate flashes blue and then settles into a shimmer just as two figures burst out of the treeline. Patrick brings his weapon up, about to give the order to fire freely, when the person on the left begins shouting out the running password.

“Redbull two! Redbull two!” he calls out, and Patrick hesitates because it sounds a lot like Commander Crosby. But he wouldn’t know the password unless--

“Malkin?” Patrick asks, and the second figure yells, “ _Da! Da! Eto ya!_ ”

Patrick lets them pass, watching them bound up to Jonny at the DHD.

“Ready!” Jonny calls, and as Patrick approaches he can see that Crosby and Malkin have scratches across their faces and hands, and Malkin’s uniform is covered in dark splotches. Looks like they’re doing just as well as the rest of them.

Patrick stands back and waves everyone through; Giroux first, then the Scotians, then Jonny. As he’s tugging Malkin through by the elbow, he can hear the high whine of the enemy ships approaching from the direction of the city.

“You waiting for a personalized invitation?” he asks Crosby, who’s halted a few steps away from the event horizon, staring back at the city.

“I should stay,” Crosby says, and Patrick knows he’s pulling a face right now, but _come on_. “There are still people there. They’re going to need help.”

“The best way for you to help is to stay alive,” Patrick insists, even though they don’t have time for this. The whine is getting louder. “Those people might still be alive, they might not. But you are, right now, so _get through the gate._ ”

Crosby jerks to look at him and there’s something about him, something hard and measuring, but it only lasts a moment and then Crosby inclines his head and steps through the gate. Behind him the ships have come into sight and Patrick gets a much better look.

They’re long and thin, like darts, and as they approach the beam of blue light turns into another cone. Patrick’s not here to get scooped up, so he follows close on Crosby’s heels.

He resurfaces in the gate room with a touch of the nausea he always feels, and Bollig is already raising the shield. Not a moment too soon, it turns out, because the dull thud of matter hitting the iris bounces through the gate room. The ships must have tried to follow them through.

Patrick adjusts his tac-vest and takes a moment to scan the scene. The Scotians have surrendered their weapons, although they don’t look happy about it -- but they’re also surrounded by SGA-2 and SGA-3, so what makes them happy is not the most important thing.

Crosby has stepped forward to turn his knife over to Keith in some sort of formal surrender. Keith accepts graciously but he shoots Patrick a look that promises they will have _words_ later. Patrick recognizes it, because it’s not the first time a commanding officer has issued such a look to him.

“You can stay,” Keith says to Crosby, “but I’m afraid that I can’t give you free reign of the city. Lieutenant Whitney and SGA-2 will show you to your quarters.”

Crosby nods, although his mouth turns down a bit at the corner, and he and the remaining Scotians follow Whitney and his team to the elevators.

“Are you serious, Major?” Keith asks once they’re gone. “What was the one thing we talked about?”

“We don’t have facilities for prisoners?” Patrick hazards a guess.

“Or guests!” Keith exclaims. “We don’t even know how to lock any of these doors. I’m putting them on an empty floor and _your_ team is going to take the majority of shifts watching them until we can figure out what the hell to do.”

He turns back to Seabrook, so Patrick takes that as his cue to be dismissed. He’s heading for the elevators himself when he catches Giroux sliding up to Biz.

“Hey, Biz, we brought you an asshole!” Giroux claps the doctor on the back. “But he does have those thighs you were asking for.”

“Every cloud has a silver lining,” Biz nods sagely.

 

* * *

 

Sidney’s willing to admit that things are not going as well as they could be.

Some of his previous commanders had chastised him for being more willing to push through with sheer will than change a plan, but Sidney prefers to think of it as a commitment to what works. Besides, all those people are dead by now, so Sidney’s plans are clearly working a little better. Their captors aren’t treating them poorly yet, and he’s hopeful that he can bargain himself in exchange for lighter treatment for his men.

It becomes clear, however, that these people don’t even know who he is. There’s one man who’s obviously in charge, and he gives Sidney a once-over along with the rest of the Scotians before leading them into a hallway and away from the room with the ring of the ancestors. They pass a few rooms with Ancient writing on plaques near the door and Sidney’s sneaking suspicion is confirmed: they’re in the company of Atlanteans. He first suspected it when he heard their speech, cadence off and too flat, and saw their bright, unhaunted eyes, and now he’s in the city of the ancestors and they _don’t know who he is_.

But, maybe that doesn’t matter. The bounty on his head on every Wraith-worshipper planet is so high that they wouldn’t have waited this long to contact the Wraith, if that’s what they were going to do, and no civilization was a bigger enemy of the Wraith than the Ancients. Maybe this will be a good thing. Maybe all those stupid rumors and prophecies about him were true. Or maybe they’re all about to get eaten.

“You guys having some trouble back home?” the Atlantean walking next to him asks. Sidney just raises an eyebrow. This soldier is big and blonde and seems about on the level with the cadets he went to the Cole Harbour Military Academy with -- which is to say that Sidney’s not impressed.

He grunts in response but the guy doesn’t seem to care. “I’m just saying,” he shrugs, “you got Major Kane in a lot of trouble coming back here, so he must have had a really good reason.”

“The Wraith have destroyed my planet with over-culling,” Sidney grits out, keeping his head forward but his eyes darting around. Maybe he can grab a weapon off of one of these guards; they’re not paying attention and Sidney’s definitely stronger than all of them, except maybe for the chatty guy. But then-- where would he go?

He catches glimpses of the outside as they pass by rooms with glass walls and it’s obvious that there’s no land in any direction. Could they storm their way back to the ring? Probably not, at least not right now. His men have suffered too many injuries.

“What are the Wraith?” the guy asks, eyebrows drawing together.

Sidney stops so short that the other stupidly large blonde trooper smacks into the back of him. “Sorry,” he mutters, moving away, but Sidney’s not even paying attention to him.

“Do you have a different word for them?” Sidney asks instead, but the guy shakes his head. Sidney starts walking again when he gets a quick little jab in the back from the soldier behind him.

“Are they, like, bad guys?”

“The _Wraith_ ,” Sidney repeats, like maybe he's just tragically slow on the uptake. “The ghosts of death? They travel through the ring of the ancestors.”

“Not ringing any bells,” he admits, before calling up to his commanding officer. “Hey, LT, you ever heard of the Wraith?”

“No, but I have heard of ‘shut the hell up before I take another one of your stripes,’ Johnson,” the guy up front responds.

“Just try it, Whits,” Johnson responds, but he’s smiling. “Bust your senior NCO to private.”

There’s more grumbling from ‘Whits’ and then they’re at a bank of doors at the end of the hallway.

“Here’s how this is gonna work,” Whits says. “We don’t all fit in the elevators, so I’m going down first with Hall, and then all of you--” he motions to the Scotians clustered together “--will come down, and then my most _dedicated_ and _experienced_ master sergeant will bring up the rear.”

He gives Johnson a look and presses a button on the wall that Sidney can recognize as Ancient writing; the classics were emphasized in the Academy and even later, in War College, but there was just never time for all of it.

A pair of doors to the right slides open and Whits and Hall step into a small pod.

“See you on the other side,” Whits gives a little wave as the doors slide shut. The rest of them stand there for about a minute, not sure exactly what to do, before another pod opens and Johnson motions them towards it. They don’t all fit in this one, either, so Sid hangs back and lets his men go first. He shares a look with Roussin as the doors slide shut, and then it’s just him and Johnson.

They’re silent for a beat before Johnson says, “You guys are in bad shape, huh?” He looks pointedly at Sidney’s chest, and Sidney looks down at himself. There are two large red-brown splotches near the collar of his uniform blouse from when Malkin grabbed him back on Scotia.

“Yes,” Sidney shrugs. “We’re basically all that’s left of my people.”

“Rough.” Johnson nods sympathetically. “The Wraith do that?”

“Did it to us and to every other planet,” Sidney answers. He feels tired all of a sudden, the adrenaline of their narrow escape washing off, and he’s alternately glad to be saved and wishing he had stayed to fight.

“Can you kill ‘em?” Johnson asks, face turned to the number pad on the wall. It lights up and the doors to their left slide open.

“I can and I have,” Sidney replies evenly. He looks straight ahead to watch the doors open, and out of the corner of his eye he can see Johnson start to smile.

"Then I think your number one concern should be that we’re gonna get ‘em before you do.”

Sidney feels the corners of his mouth tugging up reflexively as they step into the elevator. “If I thought you could pass my kill count, I wouldn’t have agreed to come.”

Johnson laughs. “Yeah, it sounded like you agreed to come here. Major Kane said he had to drag you through the gate.”

“Major Kane didn’t appreciate the subtlety of my plan,” Sidney says mock-seriously. “Which is to kill all the Wraith who cross my path.”

“Hey,” Johnson grins, nudging him with his shoulder. “Room in that plan for a couple more guys?”

Sidney smiles back.

 

* * *

 

So, they’re plus a couple of aliens, down one ZPM, and it’s the fifth day in a row that Patrick’s had powdered eggs for both breakfast and lunch. Life on Atlantis is somehow both nothing and everything like he thought it would be.

He’s heading back to his quarters to change into PT gear the first time he notices something’s wrong. Jonny had delivered what felt like a two-hour dissertation in Seabrook’s office about why he should be excused from SGA-1’s guard duty, and to Patrick’s simultaneous relief and annoyance Seabrook had granted his request. It just means Patrick has to pull extra shifts to make up for the loss of a team member, which has made him cranky and a little sluggish.

So, he chalks it up to exhaustion the first time he feels his vision go fuzzy, head swimming and face heating up. The second time it happens, he’s sitting down doing paperwork. The third time, he’s in bed.

The fourth time, he gives up and goes to see Eberle.

“It’s like I’m in a sauna,” he says, trying not to gag as Eberle pushes down on his tongue with a depressor and eyeing the thermometer warily. He’s got some strong feelings about where that particular instrument is and is _not_ going. “Everything’s foggy and hot.”

“But you haven’t fallen down or lost consciousness?” Eberle asks, ducking his head and looking intently into the back of Patrick’s throat, like the Arc of the fucking Covenant is in there or something.

“No,” Patrick says around the wooden stick, but it comes out more like “Nuuhhhhww.”

“Do you ever have any warning that these attacks are about to happen? Pain anywhere, something like that?” Eberle pulls back, tugging off his latex glove and clicking his pen before scribbling something on Patrick’s chart. The whole mission is electronic except for medical records, which are paper so they can be accessed even if power goes down.

“No,” Patrick shakes his head. They’ve figured out that the planet is probably in summer and the base is this side of too hot, but the infirmary is always cold; without his shirt on, he shivers. “Sometimes I’m lying down, sometimes I’m standing. It doesn’t even have to be in the same room or whatever.”

Eberle hums like he’s not paying attention and continues to write. After a minute, he looks up.

“There’s not a lot I can do for you,” he admits. “All your tests came back clean for everything that I could actually test for.”

“There’s gotta be something wrong with me, doc,” Patrick protests. “This didn’t used to happen. I need to be one hundred percent for the missions."

“I wish I could make you one hundred percent,” Eberle shakes his head. He looks down at Patrick’s chart again and Patrick gets a chance to really look at him. He’s got some serious lines pulling at his brow and around his eyes. “But as far as I can tell, there’s nothing wrong with you. I'll keep you for observation but that's about it. We have limited time and resources, and I have a lot of projects that are just as critical to mission success.”

Patrick hears the doors to the infirmary swish open and the unmistakable rubber clomp of Belleville boots.

“Choose any cot, Specialist,” Eberle says over Patrick's shoulder. Patrick tugs his shirt back on and leaves, giving a weakly-returned high five to Hall on his way out.

~ 

The next time it happens he’s lying very still on his cot, waiting for it. He’s prepared, got a pen and paper next to him and a tablet recording the episode, and he cancelled all his meetings this morning.

It comes on him in a wave, a gradual rising of heat in his head and spreading down his neck and chest and not stopping, flushing out to the tips of his fingers and toes. He tries to reach for the notepad but it’s so much more intense than those other times, overwhelming, that he can just lie there and take gasping breaths. He wants to hit the panic button on his radio but he can’t do that either, can’t lift a finger to help himself.

His vision swims, same as last time, but then it goes further, growing dark at the edges. The darkness becomes hazy and suddenly, through it, he can see--

Atlantis.

But it’s not expedition forces occupying the city; everyone’s wearing neutral colors and flowing robes and jesus, are these the Ancients? These are totally the Ancients, and they’ve come to like, escort Patrick to the other side. He’s heard about Ascension, hell, he watched Dr. Jackson do it twice. He just never thought it would happen to him.

He sees a taller man walk out onto the big balcony off the gate room floor, high above the city. The whole thing’s lit up, all the piers twinkling in the early dusk, and the man stops, turning to talk to someone behind Patrick. Is he-- is he talking to Patrick? It’s so hard to tell, hard to hear anything past the blood roaring in his ears, like the crash of waves, and it’s even harder to focus. But he can feel someone come up behind him, the blunt pressure of another presence close by, and just as he tries to turn--

He surfaces, jerking up, cheeks wet and breath out of control. He swings his legs over the edge of the cot and leans forward, bracing his hands on his knees, and takes deep, rattling breaths.

The tablet he had set on the nightstand is now on the floor, a jagged crack running across the screen. He must have knocked it off during the hallucination.

So not a problem Eberle can fix, then.

~ 

Patrick understands that he’s gotta tell someone, he’s just not sure who. He can’t keep going on missions like this, though, and the expedition is counting on him being on the flagship team, so he has to get his shit together sooner rather than later.

Eberle is out, because he’s already established that he can’t do anything for Patrick and he’s focused on making sure Specialist Hall doesn’t melt into a puddle of his own intestines with the gene therapy they're testing on him. Seabrook would worry too much, maybe pull him off the frontlines all together. Keith would be disappointed in him for compromising his mission readiness or something and might also bench him for the foreseeable future. Sharp, although he would bring the level of unprofessionalism that Patrick’s really looking for to this little venture, is out because he’s a bucketful of engineering genius and pranks and not much else. Crosby and Malkin are too busy being mysterious all over the place, and they probably won’t have a better idea of what’s going on than Patrick himself does.

So that leaves one person and despite Patrick’s better judgement, he heads down to the labs.

Jonny spares him only a quick look up when Patrick walks in.

“I know you get bored if you don’t have somebody to shoot,” he says, “but you don’t have to swing through my lab every twenty minutes. I’ll call you if I need something activated.”

“It’s not all about you,” Patrick snaps. Jonny flicks his gaze up but doesn’t say anything more.

“I’m having a problem,” Patrick presses on. “And I know you’re the only one around here who doesn’t give a shit about me, so you can make a rational judgement.”

Jonny puts down the propulsion component he was holding, laying it gently against the rest of the puddlejumper engine pod he’d been working on. “What kind of problem?” he asks.

“Like, hallucinations and stuff. It gets really hot and really hazy and it’s getting worse,” Patrick rushes out, twisting his hands together.

Jonny’s staring at him like he’s some quantum mechanical formula instead of a sad excuse for a human being, which is a new development. This may not be exactly how Patrick imagined getting to this point in their relationship, but he’ll take it.

“Can you reproduce the effect?” Jonny wonders, perching a hip on one of the desks and obviously thinking so hard that even looking at him is mentally taxing.

“I don’t know,” Patrick admits. “There’s not one specific thing that triggers it.”

Jonny pushes off the desk to stand. “Well, that’s the first step.” He’s giving Patrick the crazy eyes again, which is not as reassuring as he probably means it to be.

 ~

“So we know it’s not local food, or those milkshakes in the MREs, or PT, and it’s not that weird fake peanut butter with fruit that Crosby had in his rations,” Jonny lists off a few hours later. “Which, I don’t even know why you kept eating it.”

“It’s pretty good on that Scotian bread,” Patrick replies, even though he thinks he’s going to vomit and then die. Turns out that testing is an awful part of the scientific process and should be banned.

“When else has it happened?” Jonny leans over Patrick, who’s sprawled on his back on the cool floor of his base quarters. “You touch anything in Dr. Hossa’s lab?”

“Not anything that he told me more than four times not to touch,” Patrick mumbles. “Usually happens when I’m about to sleep, or just sitting around. Not thinking about anything specific.”

“Interesting,” Jonny scribbles something onto his tablet with a stylus. “Try to clear your mind of all thoughts right now.” He pauses to smirk, and Patrick can see the joke about to land even from his position on the floor. “Shouldn’t be too hard for you.”

Patrick doesn’t even have the energy to flip Jonny off properly.

But as he lays there, contemplating turning over to press his cheek against the tile and still feeling a little nauseous from the strawberry milkshake that had started as a white powder but turned pink when they added water, he begins to feel the heat building. It starts at his temples again and spreads, racing down his spine, accelerating the more he tries to ignore it.

“Ugh,” he groans, and Jonny’s instantly standing over him, eyes flicking over his face.

“You need to get on the bed? Should I get Eberle?”

Patrick can only shake his head desperately before he’s slipping into the strongest vision yet. He’s standing in Atlantis, not anywhere that he recognises but his gut tells him it’s the city, and when he tries to move his limbs weigh a ton. Even curling his fingers is too much, and when he tries to raise his head his vision is foggy but now he can feel the ocean breeze on his face, and suddenly he can smell something like citrus--

“Patrick!”

Patrick flashes awake to Jonny straddling his chest, knees jammed up under his arms and fists balled in his uniform shirt.

“I’m fine, it’s fine,” Patrick gasps, pushing Jonny back with a raised hand. Jonny slides off of him and sits nearby on the floor.

“You were under really deep,” Jonny says, eyes wide. “I didn’t think it would be like that.”

“Neither did I,” Patrick confesses. “I think we should consider the possibility that we are not the guys to solve this problem.”

Jonny glares but doesn’t protest.

 ~ 

After two more days of being completely on edge, Patrick gives in. He figures that if freaky alien shit got him into this mess, then maybe some freaky alien shit will get him out.

Crosby, on the other hand, doesn’t seem so enthusiastic to see him.

“I need your alien mind-meld powers, Commander.” Patrick announces as he sweeps past Lieutenant Galchenyuk at the door and into Crosby’s quarters. Crosby fixes him with a blank stare from his place on the floor. He looks like he’s doing yoga.

“I’ve been dropping some really good references this whole trip and I’m getting _nothing_ back,” Patrick complains.

“What can I do for you, Major?” Crosby finally asks. Patrick explains the situation and leaves out the more embarrassing aspects of his and Jonny’s little foray into medical practice.

“So you’re afraid that the second you relax, this will happen again?” Crosby concludes, and Patrick nods.

“And that’s just no way to live,” Patrick says seriously. Crosby wrinkles his nose and pulls a face.

“Have you thought about meditation?” is Crosby’s solution.

“No, but I haven’t thought about repeatedly punching myself in the face either, and that seems just about as viable,” Patrick says. Crosby’s face becomes even more disapproving.

“You exercise your body, you should exercise your mind,” he says, instead of the rude thing he was clearly thinking of. “It’s lazy to only do half.”

Patrick shrugs. "I'm a busy guy."

Crosby gives a long-suffering sigh and then looks up. “I could teach you,” he offers.

“Really?” Patrick perks up.

“But you have to make some concessions for my men,” Crosby says. “They deserve greater liberties and better food.”

Patrick laughs and swings an arm over Crosby’s shoulder, so relieved at the prospect of getting some peace from this, finally dropping this heavy weight settled onto him. “I think this could be the beginning of a beautiful friendship.”

Or not, judging by the way Crosby flinches at Patrick’s touch, but whatever. Patrick’s friends always come around.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Updates -- There’s a mistake in the gate team flowchart; Sidney’s planet code should be M2X-871, and we forgot to warn that there’s potential character spoilers in the zip file. You’ve also probably noticed we haven’t talked about the main villains in this universe. This is partly because we forgot to include it in the appendix D: But now we've decided that a bit of mystery never hurt anyone and it becomes clear soon enough.
> 
> Warnings -- the teams begin to enter hostile environments and there’s a few firefights and near-death experiences. Consider this a blanket warning for the rest of the fic. Also, we take no responsibility for any Sidney Crosby feels you may incur after this update.


	3. geno’s got ninety-nine problems, and jack johnson is one

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “We’re searching all the databases for keywords and comparing the energy signatures of the bracelets to all known Ancient devices in case there’s something similar,” Jonny finishes his report. He doesn’t add _and you’re all welcome to get off your asses and help_ , because he is a professional. A professional who put three crushed pieces of laxative chewing gum from the MREs into Sharpy’s coffee this morning, but whatever.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, it's taken four long, hard, cold months but we finally have an update for you! We didn't intend on taking this long but work and study stuff got on top of us both, and all of a sudden it's October... and well, fuck. Thank you so much for sticking with this, because we are 110% invested in finishing this behemoth. We appreciate the asks and everyone who've been checking in on the progress for this fic, and we hope you guys enjoy the hell out of this. Thanks also to our great beta team, and for everyone who's been leaving kudos and lovely comments on our chapter updates. 
> 
> Warnings -- interrogations and mentions of torture.

\--

“Start again,” Keith says, walking in a tight circle around Crosby. Kane and Toews are leaning against the far wall, out of the reach of the dimmed lights. Geno is standing against the opposite wall. Seabrook is by the door, arms crossed, but for all his scowling, he’s not doing anything to stop this. Even though this doesn’t really qualify as an interrogation, not in the same sense that Geno’s known them, it still makes him uneasy to watch it.

Keith had come across the comms and ordered SGA-1 and Commander Crosby to one of the lower decks for a discussion. Only when they got to the room did Geno realise just what kind of “discussion” it was.

“Start from the Wraith or from Scotia?” Crosby asks, voice raspy. They had given him a cup of water at the beginning, but that was hours ago. It sits on the table, turned upside down.

“The Wraith,” Keith says, perching one hip on the corner of the desk Crosby’s been seated in front of. “Scotia is over. They lost, so I don’t care what they did. Clearly didn’t work.”

Geno knows it’s part of the game, a careful attempt to rile Crosby and expose any flaws in his story, but it still makes Geno grind his teeth. He never had a stomach for these kinds of things, even if he did well enough in training. He can almost hear Colonel Gonchar sighing at him from Earth.

“The Wraith are the terror of my planet and many others,” Crosby says, lip curling. “They come every two hundred years to feed on us. The culling decimates our populations.”

“And you have no warning that they’re coming?”

“They travel through the ring of the ancestors, which, by the way, _you_ do too,” Crosby says with a pointed glare.

“Tell me about the culling,” Keith demands, standing abruptly.

“There’s no words for it,” Crosby says. “They scoop people up into the light of their ships. We don't know what happens after that. All I know is what I've seen in person.”

“Why do they cull?” Seabrook asks. Crosby shakes his head.

“They feed off from us, it’s what sustains them. Our souls.”

“Jesus,” Kane says. Toews shifts uncomfortably next to him.

“Do they know we’re here?” Keith asks, and Crosby crosses his arms. Geno’s eyes catch on the way the material of his shirt stretches over his biceps and then on the thin scars that criss-cross his arms.

“Maybe. What one Wraith knows, they all know.”

“How?” Seabrook asks. Crosby shrugs, glaring up at them.

“If I knew that, I could stop a lot more Wraith.”

Seabrook and Keith share a look. Geno understands. Now that Atlantis is floating atop the ocean, with no ZPM and their military strength at limited capacity, the idea of any kind of war is an unwelcome one.

“I think we’re done for now,” Seabrook says with a sigh, “Lieutenant Malkin, please escort Commander Crosby back to his quarters.” Geno hauls himself to his feet and walks to the door, opening it for Crosby, who walks with his chin up but moves slowly.

“Is hard to be here?” Geno asks as they head back to the guest quarters. He holds out his canteen. Crosby’s hands are deep in his pockets but he nods and takes the water.

“I keep expecting…” Crosby covers the hesitation as a pause to drink. “I don’t sleep a lot, in all this silence. It’s just been a long time since I fell asleep to nothing.”

Geno frowns. His English is getting better every day he’s forced to communicate in it, but sometimes people still say things that go over his head.

“What…” he trails off, unsure what to ask, or how.

“I mean, no Wraith darts. No gunfire. Just the ocean,” Crosby says, jerking his head towards the water as they cross an outdoor bridge between the main tower and Tower 3.

Geno nods. A lot of guys had that problem coming back, and Geno knows enough to know that whatever he could say wouldn’t be enough. He touches Crosby’s elbow lightly and Crosby leans into it, just for a second. His shoulders are still tense, though, when Geno punches in his access code to Crosby’s quarters and locks the door behind him.

 

*

 

Their encounter with the Wraith does nothing to slow their off-world missions, which Geno can understand. Naquadah is only good for the gate, and any weapons or shield will need a ZPM. But, he thinks it's an unnecessary risk to be bringing so many civilians along for the rides. SGA-1 is pretty well stocked with science guys who can kick enough ass on their own, but the rest of the gate teams aren’t exactly what Geno would call _balanced_.

Crosby keeps telling everyone the Wraith are a threat for the entire galaxy. From the meetings Geno’s forced to sit in on before every single mission, neither Seabrook nor Keith believe him enough to risk stopping, and if there’s one thing Geno can appreciate, it’s a healthy distrust of everyone. So every morning at 0800 hours they assemble in the gateroom for another shot at finding another big battery so they can go home.

Kane and Toews are squabbling over something on a tablet and Giroux is methodically checking his tac-vest. Geno’s all squared away so he drifts over to Crosby, who’s standing off to the side, his arms folded and glaring.

“Sad you not come? Should ask next time. Kane say yes,” Geno says, and Crosby raises an eyebrow.

“I’m not sad, I just think it’s stupid to go without me when I know so much.” Crosby’s face scrunches up. “And Kane wouldn’t say yes.”

“No, _sad_ ,” Geno says with a smirk. He leans in, extending a finger to gesture at the turned down edges of Crosby’s full mouth. “That face? You sad.”

Crosby doesn’t move away but his eyes are locked on Geno’s, tracking every movement. Geno pauses with his finger just above the bow of Crosby’s lip. It feels like he should say something, but he has no idea what. The klaxons wailing saves him from whatever was about to come out of his mouth.

The wormhole establishes and Kane yells something at him that gets lost in the bustle of the gateroom. Crosby’s still watching him with a weird look on his face, so Geno straightens up and fires off a sloppy salute.

“See you when I'm come back,” he says and jogs to join his team, following them up the ramp. He watches as Kane and Giroux are swallowed up after the MALP confirms the terrain is acceptable for them. He reaches for his pendant, a gift from his mother at his communion, pressing a kiss to it.

The planet itself isn’t anything special, just kinda swampy and empty of a ZPM -- like the rest of them tend to be -- so there’s nothing to distract him from Toews complaining loudly the whole time about the split lip he got when he tripped on a weird rock. It’s not even worth the naquadah energy it takes to get to the planet, and Geno’s happy to step through the gate back to base.

“Not sad anymore?” Geno says when he sees Crosby waiting for them in the gateroom. He unclips his gun and unzips his tac-vest, downloading his gear in the gateroom as per protocol. Crosby rolls his eyes but it’s not hard to see the envy on his face as Giroux herds Toews off to the med bays, while Kane explains to Keith what happened, arms pinwheeling madly in a parody as he laughs.

“I found better things to do with my time than follow you and Major Kane across the galaxy,” he says loftily, but there’s something in his eyes that makes Geno think that’s a lie.

 

* * *

 

So Patrick’s pretty excited when he gets the news that Dr. Eberle thinks Hall’s gene therapy has been successful, and Hall looks pretty excited when he finds out that he won’t have to undergo any more treatments. The senior team is invited down to the main conference room for a demonstration of Hall’s new capabilities.

Patrick knows that you can’t show up to a baby shower or a housewarming without a gift, so he hustles down to Jonny’s lab when he thinks the doctor will be at lunch and pokes around the back (keeping away from the pod with the vines) until he finds Jonny’s assortment of Ancient technology. They had spent a few days cleaning out the labs and clearing the living quarters of any remaining Ancient stuff when they arrived, and Jonny and his science minions are still in the process of cataloguing and analysing it.

It’s apparently a very long process, Patrick figures out, when he realizes that most of the boxes shoved along the back wall are unsorted. He shuffles through them until he uncovers a box labeled “PROBABLY WON’T KILL”, and after a few more minutes of digging he determines that this is the lowest threat level available.

There aren’t that many things in there -- just something that looks like a coffee cup, a metal square about the size of his palm, and something that’s maybe a laser pointer. He pushes all that aside and picks up the few remaining items. One looks like an electric toothbrush and the other’s probably a rock. Total bust.

But -- as he’s putting the rock back he shifts the box and something shiny catches the light. He pulls out a curved, shiny piece of metal about an inch thick that looks like it would go over his wrist, and when he digs deeper he finds another one. They're identical in size and shape, and he can see Ancient writing on the insides. Like hell can he read it, but when he steadies his breath and eases into thoughts of a bright warmth, like he does to activate all Ancient tech, the lettering starts to glow. Nothing else happens, though, so he figures it will be a harmless test of Hall’s new genetic skills.

Patrick, as is turning out to be the case on this mission more often than not, is spectacularly fucking wrong.

 

* * *

 

Specialist Hall is paraded in front of the senior staff that afternoon, brought up from the infirmary to the conference room.

“How do you feel, Specialist?” Keith asks. Jordan, standing quietly behind Hall, tries hard not to roll his eyes. Hall just spent the better part of a month letting Jordan inject genetically modified mice genes into him until he couldn’t even stand on his own; he’s not doing great.

But Hall just gives a small smile, looking deferential in his at-ease stance. “Feeling fine, sir.”

“How are you feeling mentally?” Heightmeyer, the staff psychiatrist, prompts. “I know we talked about things in our sessions, but what can you tell the staff?”

Hall shrugs. “It was tough,” he admits. “Especially during the initial rounds, when the pain was the most. But I knew I was working to help other people on this mission, so I got through it.”

That gets him a few nods from Keith and Kane, but Seabrook’s still frowning. They’re textbook answers, but Jordan figures that a diplomat like Seabrook might be able to see through that.

“Did the pain ever make you regret your decision to volunteer?” Seabrook asks, leaning forward. They’re all seated at the rounded conference table, while Jordan and Hall stand at the front of the room. Jordan knows that he’s supposed to think of himself as being among colleagues but it still feels like an interrogation.

“It was pretty bad,” Hall says, and then darts his eyes over to Jordan. His mouth quirks up briefly. “Ebs got me through it.”

“And what do you think, doc?” Kane asks, chewing on the end of his tablet stylus. Next to him, Toews looks to be about five seconds from slapping it out of his mouth.

“I think Specialist Hall was an exceptional candidate,” Jordan says. “The procedure is still experimental and probably will be until we can return to Earth and replicate it in a fully-stocked operating theater.”

“So what you’re saying is it’s not ready to roll out to every non-carrier around here,” Keith summarises.

“Exactly,” Jordan nods. “It was useful to prove that it can be done, in case of some wide-scale emergency, but the time and resources it would take to refine the process are too much for us right now. I’d still accept candidates, but there’s no guarantee of success. I think,” he offers, “that Hall got pretty lucky.”

Toews looks especially perturbed by this, which makes sense. He’s been the one pushing the hardest for Jordan to complete the project, always asking him for his notes. “So this treatment would incapacitate a patient for... a month?” he presses.

“Probably longer,” Jordan answers. “And they wouldn’t be able to do much more than lie in bed. Hall had to be relieved of his duties on SGA-2.”

Toews’ frown deepens until Kane flicks a miniature paper plane at his face, at which point the frown turns into a scowl. It’s sort of a natural progression for his face, though, so it’s hardly noticeable.

“So, how about a demonstration?” Sharp suggests, and Kane perks up.

“I brought something we could use,” he grins, pulling two metallic bracelets from his right cargo pocket. To the credit of the entire room, everyone raises an eyebrow.

“I tested it first,” he protests, sliding the pieces across the table. “It just lights up.”

Hall reaches out and snags one of them, and Jordan picks up the other out of curiosity. He turns it over in his hand and the thing feels like it’s heating up.

“I want you to clear your mind,” Heightmeyer says in a low voice. “There’s no pressure, no one’s watching. You’re in an empty room. You look down and that artifact is in your hand. Think about activating it, what that would feel like.”

Hall nods and his eyes slide halfway shut, just like all the other times they’ve practiced this. Back then they were focused on turning off the lights or opening the doors, simple things, and there was a part of Jordan that wasn’t quite convinced _he_ wasn’t doing it himself given how hard he was concentrating on Hall. Jordan’s expression of the gene isn’t as strong as Kane’s but it’s still impressive.

After a few seconds the symbols begin to glow blue, starting at one end of the band and flowing slowly down to the other, and when Hall opens his eyes the first thing he does is turn to grin at Jordan. Jordan grins back because this is the culmination of all their hard work and an end to Hall’s pain. He feels a rush of pleasure through him, and it isn’t until he hears someone gasp that he even notices that the band in his palm is pale blue, too.

“Is that supposed to happen?” Keith asks, eyeing Toews and Sharp, who are still staring at Jordan and Hall.

“Maybe?” Sharp says, moving to stand. He walks cautiously over to them and peers at the bands. “Where the hell is Giroux? We should read this.”

“Supervising trade negotiations on M2X-337,” Kane reports. “You know, the planet with the barley-type stuff we thought we could brew with.”

“Then he’s doing God’s work,” Sharp nods. “What about Biz?”

“I’ll call him,” Seabrook offers, and steps back to activate his comm.

“They look like bracelets,” Toews observes when he comes forward. “Are they, like, Ancient jewelry?”

“If so, the Ancients had no style,” Kane sighs. “Well, maybe you’ve gotta put them on or something.” He motions to the bands.

Jordan shrugs and glances at Hall, who returns the gesture. The opening is a little tight but he manages to wiggle his hand through and it settles comfortably on his wrist. That is, until Hall gets his on as well.

“What the fuck is this?” Hall blurts out, immediately grabbing for his wrist. He’s tugging hard on the bracelet, alternately pulling and pushing it down his arm, but it won’t budge. Jordan notices that his is way tighter than it was a minute ago and the writing has changed from a calm blue to a bright red, and _that’s_ never good.

“Oh boy,” Sharp sighs. Jordan looks up to see Toews round on Kane.

“I thought you said they didn’t do anything!” he explodes. Kane puts his hands up in front of him, but his eyes narrow.

“They didn’t when I checked them, and I _know_ I have the strongest gene because otherwise what did I sit through all those painful tests for?” He reaches out to poke Toews in the chest with one finger. “So I was right to think that if it didn’t happen for _me_ , it wasn’t gonna.”

Toews huffs but backs down, although even Jordan, who spends most of the day in his labs, can tell that argument is far from over.

“Well, get it off,” Hall says, holding out his arm to Kane. Kane takes it in both hands, palms resting over the bracelet, and closes his eyes. He stands very still for a while before gushing out a big breath and shaking his head.

“I thought ‘off’ as hard as I could in every language I could imagine,” he says, “including Ancient.”

"Come to my lab," Toews sighs. "I'll see if I can cut it off."

Hall looks queasy as he follows Jonny to the elevators so Jordan calls out, "The whole hand or just the bracelet?" and gets a murderous look from both of them in return.

"I'm gonna send Corpsman Wennberg to assist you in the infirmary," Kane claps Jordan on the back. "Make this your top priority and don't worry about your extra duties, okay?"

Jordan's grateful for the help and he's just about to say so, when his vision gets inky and he passes out, landing a kilometer wide of Sharpy's outstretched arms.

 

* * *

 

"This mission is _clearly_ cursed," Taylor hears when he comes to. He's lying on top of the blankets on a cot in the infirmary, boots still on and everything, and Major Kane's looming over him.

"Specialist," Kane greets him as Taylor struggles against the glaring overhead lights. All his limbs are heavy like lead, and he's got the worst hangover.

"Major," he replies and then looks around. It's been a few hours, he guesses, because the daylight has turned into dusk and he can smell the obvious odor of army gravy from the mess. He looks to his right and Ebs is sprawled on the cot next to his, mouth open and still unconscious.

“Remember anything?” Yakupov asks, swooping in. He presses his lips together and flicks a bright penlight back and forth into Taylor’s eyes.

“I remember going with Dr. Toews to his lab,” Taylor says, resisting the urge to shove Yakupov’s hands away as he grabs Taylor’s wrist to take his pulse. “And then waking up here.”

“We think it’s the bracelets,” Biz offers from somewhere nearby. Taylor manages to push himself into a sitting position and Biz immediately steps forward to fluff his pillows. “Which by the way, tacky or what, am I right?”

Taylor glances down sharply and sees that he’s still got the Ancient bracelet on his wrist. He gives it a tug on the off chance, but it stays firmly on, digging into his skin. “What exactly about them?” he asks.

“They admit a small level of radiation specific to Ancient technologies,” Toews says. He shoots a glare at the back of Kane’s head. “Which we _would’ve_ known if someone had actually tested them first.”

“Maybe _someone_ should have properly sorted them first,” Kane suggests, rolling his eyes without turning around to dignify Toews’ comment.

“Either way,” Biz interrupts, “we’ve been able to measure their energy signatures and we found that they’re sending and receiving little packets of data, so we think they’re communicating with each other. It’s probably why they affected you after you were separated from Ebs.”

“Why would being separated matter?” Taylor manages to grit out. His mouth feels like it’s full of sand and his head is pounding, although he’s starting to feel better.

“Not sure,” Toews answers. “We’re working on it.”

“G and I translated the script while you were out -- we asked Crosby but he’s never heard of them,” Biz says. He spins the tablet in his lap around so Taylor can see, although it’s all just photographs of Ancient writing. “Nothing great, just about being together forever and the ruthless punishment that awaits you if you’re ever separated.”

Taylor feels his eyes widen. “ _What?_ ”

“Oh yeah,” Kane chimes in. “Giroux figured out that you’re both gonna die if you’re more than, like, ten feet away from each other.”

“About ten feet?” Yakupov pops back into Taylor’s field of vision, holding a chart. “Not sure?”

“Oh, ya know...” Biz shrugs. “Jonny thinks he can solve it with science. I, on the other hand, think tonight's the night when two become one.”

Taylor thinks he is well within his rights to pass out again.

 

* * *

 

When Sidney bargained for more liberties for his men, he had kind of hoped that a few would come his way, too, but so far he’s only had his access rights expanded to the enlisted gym and Master Sergeant Johnson’s quarters. Johnson, along with Lieutenant Malkin, seems to have taken on the task of babysitting him.

At least they get along, although there had been a healthy amount of suspicion on both sides for those first few days. Sidney sort of likes the way that Jack gives as good as he gets, unlike the other Tau’ri who walk on tiptoes around him, and definitely unlike Malkin, who refuses to rise to any of Sidney’s bait.

Sidney manages to avoid a lot of uncomfortable questions by spending most of the week in Jack’s quarters when he’s not in meetings with the SGA personnel, flipping through his University of Michigan yearbook and listening to his music machine. He hasn't been able to avoid Bissonette entirely, and had just finished being dragged into the medical bays to stare at one of their soldiers passed out on a cot. Specialist Hall and Dr. Eberle were wearing strange bracelets with writing of the Ancestors on them -- Sidney's never seen anything like them and said so, grateful to be allowed out without any more questions.

“You cleaned,” Jack says with surprise when he comes back from a staff meeting. Sidney shrugs, skipping to the next page of ‘Clubs & Societies’ with disinterest -- he’s already seen all the photos Jack’s actually in.

“You lined up my shoes?” Jack looks down at the neat row of his boots and sneakers next to the door.

“And packed up your gear,” he adds, nodding towards the neatly-stowed ruck and duffle, along with his tac-vest hanging in the closet.

Jack gives a low whistle and says, “Well I was gonna kick you off my bed and back to your own quarters, but you’ve just bought yourself another half-hour here.” He leans down to unwrap the excess laces on his desert boots and toes them off, and Sidney doesn’t miss that he places them nicely at the end of the row.

“I’d like to see you try to kick me out,” Sidney mutters just to be contrary, and wiggles himself back into the collection of pillows propped behind him.

“We can have that fight again if you promise not to cry this time,” Jack offers, dropping down onto the far side of the bed hard enough to give Sidney a little bounce and then flipping onto his back, eyes closed.

“I didn’t cry the last time, either.” Sidney frowns. “You just fight dirty. I wasn’t ready for it then. I’m better now.”

Jack cracks one eye open and smirks out of the side of his mouth, as though that’s all the response needed.

For Sidney, it is. He reaches behind and pulls out a pillow, the standard-issue kind that’s scratchy fabric and sawdust filling, and swings so quickly that Jack doesn’t have time to react.

“Mummmph!” he says, and Sidney hefts a leg over his hips to pin him and grabs his far wrist, holding down Jack’s other arm. But that means that the pillow has nothing keeping it in place and it slides off easily, letting Jack get in a headbutt that’s just disorienting enough to free a hand, which he then wraps around Sidney’s throat. He pinches hard enough to make him choke and Sidney relaxes his grip instinctively when he gets his air back, so Jack flips them and they go tumbling to the floor.

Jack declares victory after a few more minutes and a broken desk lamp. Sidney declares cheating because Jack’s that much bigger than him and he’s not afraid to hurt Sidney, not like most of the others.

“I’ll let you stay,” Jack concedes after Sidney taps out with a swat to his thigh, “Because of the graciousness of your surrender.” He refers, of course, to Sidney trying to knee him in the balls as Jack pushed himself off of him. Sidney just grins and settles back down on the bed.

 

* * *

 

Jonny does not solve it with science.

“It’s hard to do,” he snaps at the next staff meeting. Patrick’s gives him a look like Jonny’s being overly defensive, but maybe if the rest of the senior staff weren’t such judgemental dickbags he wouldn’t have anything to be defensive about.

“It’s difficult to examine the devices when they can’t be removed from Hall or Eberle,” he continues. “And we don't even know the _consequences_ of taking them off. It might be more dangerous to remove them.”

“More dangerous than what?” Eberle cuts him a hard look. “Spending the rest of my life wondering if magic jewelry is gonna kill me for being too far away from this guy?” He jerks his head at Hall, who is sitting as close to Eberle as physically possible without actually being in his lap. They might even be holding hands, but Jonny refuses to give them that much of his attention. He had submitted a memo to Seabrook suggesting that there was a radius for leeway with the bracelets and that it certainly extended to the other side of the door to the meeting room, but it was ignored. As are most of his memo’s.

“Maybe,” Jonny says, just to be spiteful, but then relents. “We have to figure out their purpose, and Giroux and Biz are working on that. So far, they’ve narrowed it down to something for marriage or law enforcement.”

“Okay, glad we’re not going too wide with that one,” Seabrook mutters, like Jonny spontaneously can’t hear someone sitting three feet away.

“We’re searching all the databases for keywords and comparing the energy signatures of the bracelets to all known Ancient devices in case there’s something similar,” Jonny finishes his report. He doesn’t add _and you’re all welcome to get off your asses and help_ , because he is a professional. A professional who put three crushed pieces of laxative chewing gum from the MREs into Sharpy’s coffee this morning, but whatever.

“Let us know the second you have something,” Seabrook sighs, dismissing the meeting. He makes eye contact with everyone so they all know how serious this is, although he lingers on Jonny.

That’s okay with Jonny, though, because Seabrook knows who’s got his back on this mission, and it isn’t the blonde-haired jumper jockey currently trying to see how many fake bon-bons from M2X-415 he can stuff in his mouth.

 

* * *

 

Taylor might have to spend the rest of his life walking three paces behind and one step to the left of Ebs, that’s fine. His dad’s from Calgary. Maybe Taylor could learn to like living in a prairie province, return to the homestead or whatever. Or, more exciting yet, maybe the bracelets will just kill them, to the relief and satisfaction of everyone.

“Are you trying to light me on fire with the power of your mind?” Ebs asks, breaking the stillness of the room. That’s when Taylor realizes that he’s been starting pretty intently at the back of the doctor’s head for about half an hour.

“The infirmary sucks,” he says, instead of answering. “There are no windows and no books or anything.”

“Nope, just hundreds of thousands of years of medical knowledge,” Ebs grins, spinning around in his chair to look at Taylor, who’s lying in one of the collapsable cots. They’d spent the first hour testing how far away they could be before the dizziness set in, which had clocked at about twelve feet. That constituted the majority of the research they could perform together, so Ebs went back to his laptop and Taylor went back to contemplating some deep things and definitely not sulking -- although a good sulk was definitely deserved.

About two hours in, Taylor had moved well into the twelve foot radius and tried to do some push-ups, maybe toss in some jumping jacks and get a workout going if he was just going to be stagnating here, but Ebs had lasted five minutes before telling Taylor he felt sick.

“You’re not even exercising,” Taylor had whined. Ebs just shrugged.

“I just don’t feel good, even if I’m not watching you.”

So Taylor’s given up the workouts in the name of peace and as a goodwill gesture to the man who might someday have to pretend to be really interested in the wallpaper while Taylor gets his leg over with someone -- in some hypothetical world where they actually make it back to Earth and aren’t immediately court marshalled.

“So I’m just supposed to lie here forever?” Taylor wonders, sprawling out on the cot and almost sliding off. His shirt comes untucked from his fatigue pants and bunches up under his arms, but he doesn’t even have enough life force to fix it -- except Ebs is staring like he’s never seen a grown man disgrace himself so thoroughly before. (If so, he’s in for a treat because there’s more where that came from.) Taylor wiggles himself back onto the cot.

“You can do whatever,” Ebs turns back to his lab table. “Just stay close.”

Like Taylor had forgotten. But he knows how it is when you’re trying to concentrate; he’s basically given up on reading in the barracks. So he vows to put a lot of effort into staying quiet.

It works for about four minutes until Ebs slams down his stylus. “Stop!” he shouts, rounding on Taylor. “I’m trying to get stuff done.”

“I’m not doing anything,” Taylor spits, because he’s _not_ , even at great personal expense.

“You’re being so-- loud,” Ebs complains. “I can, like, feel how nervous you are.”

“I’m not that nervous,” Taylor says. “And what, I’m so anxious one body can’t contain it? It’s spilling over to you?”

“No,” Ebs mutters. “It’s just-- I can tell you’re upset and it’s like, amplifying everything I feel.”

“I know that’s not true,” Taylor says, “Because if you were getting my emotions but amplified, you would have died of boredom.”

Ebs just shoots him a look and whirls back around to his work.

 

* * *

 

“So the thing I don’t understand,” Patrick says, ignoring Jonny’s eyeroll that’s clearly meant to convey _just one thing?_ , “Is why you can’t just fix this the same way you fixed the marriage bracelets from P3X-184.”

“It’s not that easy,” Giroux replies instead, almost invisible behind the stacks of books and printouts on his desk. All Patrick can really see is the shock of red hair, which is usually hidden under an orange flaphat.

They’re in what Biz had pronounced ‘The Situation Room’, which is really just an empty office near the gateroom. It’s got two desks, a great view of the city, and the kind of organized chaos that comes from keeping two researchers locked in for a few days.

Patrick’s perched on the other desk next to a pile of photos of Ancient artifacts and three half-full coffee cups. Jonny’s sitting cross-legged on the floor beside him because apparently the Ancients spent all their time designing intergalactic travel devices instead of office chairs.

“How can it not be that easy?” Patrick asks, shifting carefully so as to avoid knocking the cups over and probably destroying irreplaceable knowledge or something.

“Those bracelets were technically Goa’uld design,” Giroux explains, standing and coming around to the other side of the desk. “The Goa’uld stole a lot of Ancient technology but they modified it for their purposes. Goa’uld tech can only be used by someone who has naquadah in their blood, which comes from being a host for one of them. Danny had it from that time--”

He stops, straightens up and scrubs his palms on his pants. “Dr. Briere had it, which is how the bracelets activated in the first place. We were able to break the connection using the vortex of the stargate, but that’s not a good idea here.”

“Seems a lot better than our other ideas,” Patrick says, “which are none.”

“We understand a lot more about Goa’uld technology,” Jonny reminds from his position on the floor. “No telling what the Ancient stuff will do.”

“I don’t know how you guys stand it,” Biz says as he sweeps through the door, dropping a couple of canary-yellow notepads onto Giroux’s desk. “Because I’ve got looks and charm, of course, but also brains.”

“You figure it out?” Giroux asks, flipping through a few pages.

“They’re for prisoner transport,” Biz says, spreading his hands with a flourish. “Can’t run away if you’ll die, yeah?”

Patrick whistles. “The Ancients were pretty messed up.”

“That they were, Major,” Biz claps him lightly on the shoulder. “That they were. So we’ve got the why and some of the how. Next steps?”

“Gotta know more about the how,” Jonny decides, nodding along with his own idea like they all voted on it or something. “Didn’t you find a reference to another Ancient repository of knowledge on M2X-165?”

“Yeah,” Giroux says slowly, “but we haven’t had a lot of luck with those.”

“As long as no one sticks their face in there we should be fine,” Jonny says, but Patrick’s been going off-world for many years and he knows that _intending_ not to stick your face somewhere dangerous is often not enough. “Unless you have some secret bank of Ancient knowledge you’ve been waiting to spring on us. Because I’ve gotta say, now would be the time.”

“SGA-1 will go,” Patrick says. “But we can’t afford to lose any ground on this, so you’re staying in Atlantis, G.” Giroux looks up, surprised, but Patrick shakes his head. “I read enough Ancient to know what to take pictures of, thanks to you, and I need my best guys pushing through the material we’ve got here.”

“But who’s going to use the repository?” Jonny asks.

“I think the guy who suggested it,” Patrick smiles, and Jonny lets his expression sink into a frown.

 

* * *

 

Galchenyuk’s face does a fantastic impression of a cat who’s about to throw up once Patrick tells him he’s coming to M2X-165.

“We need the extra security,” Patrick explains. “The repositories were important to the Ancients and they might be important to the Wraith or whoever’s left on the planet.”

“You’ll be _fine_ ,” Jonny says. It’s probably not as comforting and supportive as he meant it to be. Whatever, there’ll be time for comfort and support when he’s not being called into crisis management meetings every hour.

SGA-1 has a hit time in thirty, by when everyone is geared up and shifting restlessly while Sharp and Giroux co-brief on the Ancient repository and Seabrook and Keith try not to look worried.

“So, definitely don’t stick your face in it,” Sharpy says, too chipper, “Because this will happen.” He clicks forward to the next slide and it’s a series of brainwave scans; the readout has O’NEILL, J in the bottom corner. “And we all remember how well this went down. Unless you want a very painful Ascension, stay away.”

“Just look for any mention of the bracelets or prisoner tracking, or even anything about the judicial system,” Giroux advises. “Take lots of pictures. And don’t get incepted.”

“Also,” he continues, like it’s an afterthought, “don’t get shot.”

That gives Jonny, who was about to sigh heavily at what he considers to be a waste of resources, a moment’s pause.

“You know,” Patrick says after a beat, “I look forward to the day when we show up on a planet and nobody wants to kill us.”

“With you along, it’ll never happen,” Sharpy grins and Patrick smiles back, stupid fuck. If Jonny had said it they’d be in for another hour of shouting.

“Is maybe...” Malkin starts, but then fumbles and goes pink when all eyes turn to him. “Maybe good idea bring Crosby? Because, uh... he local? Know things?”

“Hmmm,” Keith mutters, like he’s maybe considering it, which, _no_. Jonny’s not bringing a hostile alien to another hostile alien world -- why is everyone nodding like this is a remotely viable plan?

“He does have the most native Pegasus knowledge,” Seabrook muses. “If you think he can be trusted?”

“Yes,” Malkin nods. “Sergeant Johnson trust him, too.”

Jonny doesn’t like where this is going, especially when Patrick claps his hands once and announces, “Okay, get him ready. I want to go in fifteen.”

They’re getting shot this time. For sure.

 

* * *

 

“Those pants are humongous,” Toews says when Crosby steps into the gateroom. Geno has to agree; they blouse over the tops of Crosby's boots, all the way down to his ankles, and the belt has cinched what must be half a foot of extra fabric around his waist. But they are, Geno notes with a weirdly tight feeling, stretching _obscenely_ over his ass.

“They were the only ones large enough to fit his lower half,” Kane says, not looking sorry at all. “He’s little in the middle but he’s got much back.”

“We’ll figure it out later,” Seabrook says. “Maybe one of the Quartermaster’s guys can alter them.”

“You couldn’t find him ladies pants or something?” Toews asks, still glaring.

“All fatigues come in mens only,” Kane shoots back at the same time that Crosby says, “I don’t need ladies pants.”

“These will work for now,” Crosby assures as he hitches them up, and Geno’s only staring at his waist because they’re talking about the pants, definitely. Anyway, they have more pressing issues, like Toews walking over to the center console and picking up--

“Absolutely not!” Kane shouts, racing over. “I’m pulling rank on this one.”

“Why?” Toews asks, but he lets Kane tug the iPod out of his hands. The day they learned to interface that thing to the PA system was a dark one, as far as Geno’s concerned.

“Because I’m not letting you pick Nickleback or whatever as the psych-up music, Jesus,” Kane says, scrolling through. He stops, pokes his tongue out in concentration, and then Geno recognizes the first strains of Public Enemy coming through the sound system. Luckily they’ve managed to localize the feed so it only plays in the gateroom.

“Bossy,” Toews says.

“I’m the first girl to scream on the track,” Kane nods.

Crosby sidles up to Geno, still tugging absently on the waistband of the pants. He doesn’t say anything but his lips are pressed together, thinned.

“Not like music?” Geno asks, patting all his pockets on his vest and his fatigues to make sure he has as many extra clips as he thinks he does.

“It’s fine,” Crosby says, “but I prefer the stuff Jack has on his music thing better. Like, Snoop Dogg.”

Geno hopes that the involuntary eye-roll he does at the mention of Crosby and Johnson’s friendship goes unnoticed. It’s not that he doesn’t like Johnson, who’s proven to be a great senior NCO and a very capable Trivial Pursuit partner (Dr. Hossa brought it as his personal item and probably didn’t anticipate the fistfights that would ensue), but something about the way Johnson fits so easily with Crosby just rubs him the wrong way.

It’s not that Geno’s jealous, because he still has a little dignity left, but -- it’s hard, sometimes, to watch Johnson and Crosby joking around, wrestling on the mats, sitting together in the mess. They’re not even from the same planet but they’re friends. Geno didn’t get to have that sense of easy belonging back on Earth, not in Russia and definitely not under Cheyenne Mountain. The last person he felt kind of close to was Ovechkin, who promptly sent him into another galaxy.

“You listen with Johnson a lot?” Geno asks, clearing the chamber of his P-90 for something to do with his hands.

“Eh, sometimes,” Crosby says with a shrug. “The officers don’t know I’m in his bunk and the enlisted are too scared to bother me.”

“ _In his_ \--” Geno starts, not liking the tone of his own voice, but he’s interrupted by Johnson and Corpsman Wennberg walking into the gateroom.

“Hey, Sid, you forgot that peanut butter shit you like so much,” Johnson says, tossing a plastic pouch of something at Crosby. “I know how you hate to mess up your eating routine.”

“Thanks,” Crosby says, catching it easily and bending down to stuff it in his rucksack.

“Go get ‘em, killer,” Johnson says, and he bumps Crosby with his shoulder before heading towards the door. He gives Geno a nod of acknowledgement that Geno returns out of reflex.

“He call you Sid now?” Geno asks once Johnson and Wennberg are out of earshot.

Crosby flushes pink and coughs. “You could… if you want. Call me Sid, I mean.”

“Yes. Okay. You call me Zh… eh, call me Geno.”

It makes something hot shoot through him, the idea that Sid will call him Geno, that they’ve gone past first names and into nicknames. It doesn’t ease the tension inside him but instead changes it, makes it something that drops through his stomach instead of clenching his muscles. Geno’s gonna need some honest-to-god vodka from the motherland if he’s going to get through this -- none of the shit Galchenyuk and Yakupov are distilling in that closet on the first floor. He zones back into Kane’s conversation, which has moved to another scientist.

“I’m just saying,” Kane is gesticulating while Sharp looks on sympathetically, “Seabrook disregarded my mission patch design without even really thinking about it.”

“That’s because they weren’t going to let you make the expedition motto ‘Get it Right, Get it Tight’,” Toews points out.

“Whatever,” Kane mutters, and that’s when the gate locks on and the horizon splashes outward.

“Locked on to M2X-165,” Bollig says. He’s not actually a gate tech, but they’re stretched so thin on this mission that everyone’s pulling duties outside their MOS.

“Gentlemen,” Kane intones, making a sweeping ‘after you’ motion. “Age before beauty,” he says to Toews.

“I’m like, four months older than you.” Toews’ face pinches.

“Is it gonna be like this the whole time?” Galchenyuk asks. Geno just sighs and nudges Sid ahead of him through the wormhole. At least he’s stopped puking -- newly acknowledged feelings about aliens on their expedition aside, that’s not an attractive look for anyone.

 

* * *

 

The gate is unguarded, the road is unguarded, so ex-fuckin’- _scuse_ Patrick for thinking the repository would be unguarded, too. Jonny can glare at him all he wants, but one of them talked their way into having their hands untied and one of them didn’t.

Patrick had managed to convince the Balesh that, as the commanding officer of a non-hostile force, he should be granted the courtesy of having his hands free, and for once their alien captors had agreed. The Balesh seem pretty big on old-world military traditions.

“Is this how most of your missions go?” Sidney asks, pushing himself up onto his knees after the Balesh guard had shoved him onto the dirt floor of the cell. He tosses his head to get the hair out of his face and shrugs his shoulders back, trying to loosen the tension on his bound hands.

“Almost all,” Patrick nods.

“ _Exactly_ all,” Jonny corrects.

“Are we gonna die?” Galchenyuk asks.

“Maybe,” Patrick says, squinting at the walls. They look like concrete. Knowing their luck, the Balesh will have figured out some Pegasus version of it and the prison break he’s maybe plotting will become a pipe dream.

“Probably,” Jonny adds.

“You’re not helping,” Patrick admonishes. “You are not a helper.”

Jonny rolls his eyes but shuts up, probably in the hope that sometime in the near future Patrick will use his exclusive mobility to pull Jonny up from where he’s lying awkwardly on his side, but he’s shit out of luck.

“How long we wait?” Geno asks, rocking back and forth until he can shift from kneeling back on his heels to sitting cross-legged without face-planting. Patrick gives him a steadying hand on the shoulder, partly to keep him from toppling over and partly to see the look on Jonny’s face.

“Well, they wanna start formal negotiations with Atlantis,” Patrick says, “so... definitely not more than a month.”

“I hate this, and I hate you,” Jonny snaps. “Not necessarily in that order.” He gives up on trying to push himself into a sitting position and just lays back, panting. He’s making rapid, shallow breaths instead of deep ones, like he’s trying to hide that he’s winded. Whatever, Patrick doesn’t have time for this bullshit.

The list of things Patrick _does_ have time for is very short, and includes their current incarceration, Keith’s face when he finds out they’ve been captured, Eberle’s face when he finds out they haven’t searched the repository, and then whatever the fuck Jonny’s problem is -- _necessarily_ in that order.

“The Balesh are a very traditional people,” Sidney offers, and Patrick reaches out and pushes his hair away from his eyes as a reward. Jonny makes a little snorting noise from the floor, but Patrick ignores him, instead tugging at the weird hemp ties to give Sidney’s wrists more slack. Someone’s bringing something useful to the table, and it isn’t Dr. Toews.

“You know about them?” Patrick says.

“We haven’t had a lot of direct contact with them in modern times, but we used to fight a lot. Cadets do entire chapters on them in War College.”

“They tough?” Geno says.

“No.” Sidney shakes his head. “Just industrialized before everybody else, except Voin. They weren’t costly wars, but they were long.”

“You are much more useful than a physicist.” Patrick crouches down to look him in the eye, even though Sidney gives him a confused head tilt in return. “What do you think they want with us?”

“Well, I’m here,” Sidney admits. He’s quick to add, “and that’s not great. I’m not wanted on charges or anything! Just, the commander of this garrison and I had some... words, before Scotia fell. And you came here without a formal invitation and with your weapons drawn, so that’s kind of a problem.”

“Why didn’t you tell us this before we left?” Jonny grumbles, twisting around onto his belly. All that gets him is a face full of dirt, though.

Sidney shrugs. “I don’t know what your codes for the planets meant. If you had said we were going to Bale, I would have said ‘that’s a stupid idea and we’re going to be executed’.”

“Well, let us know for next time,” Jonny says into the ground.

 

* * *

 

“Absolutely not,” Jonny insists, twisting his face away.

“C’mon,” Patrick wheedles, pushing the bowl closer to his mouth.

“No,” Jonny says. “I’m not letting you hand-feed me.”

“Why not?” Patrick says, watching Jonny squirm away from another attempt at pouring some food into his mouth. The Balesh may be honoring the code of hospitality by giving them shelter and food, but they’re doing it in an exceptionally minimalist fashion; the bowls stay out for about fifteen minutes at a time, twice a day, and Patrick’s still the only one with his hands free. They’re not even setting out solid food, just beige-colored porridge and water, so Patrick has to hold the bowl while the squad sits or kneels to drink.

“Because I’m not an invalid and it’s weird,” Jonny answers. “Just put it on the ground, I’ll figure something out.”

“You’ll figure dehydration out,” Patrick counters. “Geno doesn’t mind, do you, G?”

Geno, kneeling to Patrick’s right, shakes his head. “No problem.”

“And neither does Sidney,” Patrick continues, moving to stand in front of him. “And he’s getting the best porridge because he’s going first, which could have been you.” He says it with a stern look in Jonny’s direction.

Sidney, sitting back on his haunches, tips his head back when Patrick brings the bowl up. He makes sure to go slow, so as not to choke him, and times the speed of his pouring with the swallows Sidney makes, loud in the quiet of the cell. Patrick cups his hand around the back of Sidney’s head to steady him, tightening his fingers in Sidney’s hair briefly out of an embarrassing instinct.

Sidney is pliant and willing to be manhandled into position, like most military guys who have gotten used to other people controlling their bodies out of necessity. Patrick keeps his eyes on the bob of Sidney’s Adam’s apple because otherwise he might meet Sidney’s eyes, which are wide and hazel and always looking at him. He gives Sidney half the bowl of porridge and then a few sips of water.

Geno is next, and he gives Patrick an outrageous wink, which makes it that much easier for Patrick to slide into Geno’s personal space. It’s not strained at all, which is a marked improvement on their relationship so far, and when Patrick finds himself reaching out, he manages to guide his hand down onto Geno’s shoulder instead.

Galchenyuk squirms a lot, just like the last time, enough that Patrick has to stop periodically.

“I’m really ticklish,” he says by way of explanation, and Patrick shrugs.

“Last chance,” he says to Jonny once Galchenyuk is done. “They’re not coming back until tomorrow.”

“Not interested,” Jonny huffs. Patrick rolls his eyes.

 

* * *

 

“This is shitty, man, c’mon!” Patrick shouts as two guards yank Sidney to his feet, jerking him roughly. “Whatever he did is way in the past!”

“It’s okay,” Sidney says, shaking his head. The guards grip him under either elbow and half-walk, half-drag him out of the cell and down the hallway, presumably to one of those windowless buildings they passed on the walk into the city.

This whole prison complex is basically a few cages under a leaky roof, not connected to anything else, so he can’t even get a sense of wherever they’re hauling Sidney. Not that it really matters; if these stupid fucks think they can take one of Patrick’s guys to do _whatever_ with no consequences, they’ve got a real surprise coming.

Geno looks like he agrees. His fists are clenched behind his back and the tension in his body makes him look whipcord and mean. Patrick’s never seen that expression on his face before.

“Hey,” he lays a gentle hand on Geno’s shoulder. “We’re gonna fuck ‘em up.”

Geno nods, curt, and his eyes harden as he stares out of their cell at the scuffs on the dirt floor.

They come for Galchenyuk next, during the night when everything is dark and disorienting and Patrick can’t see past the shine of a flashlight in his eyes. When the spots finally clear and the shouting quiets, he sees Geno squirming on his side, curled into the fetal position, with Jonny shuffling over to him.

“Shouldn’t have done that,” Jonny says, but it doesn’t sound patronising like he usually does. Instead he sounds firm, like maybe the unspoken finish to that thought is _we’ll get them next time_. Geno nods tightly, eyes squeezed shut, and then forces his breathing into a slow, deep rhythm.

“I’m not think they kick so hard,” he says, body finally relaxing.

“They always do,” Jonny sighs.

The guards come by again in the morning, more than the ones who usually deliver food, but they take one long look at Geno and back out of the cell again.

It’s a smarter move than they realize, Patrick suspects.

 

* * *

 

So Sid’s gone, Galchenyuk’s gone, they still have to eat that cold porridge that tastes like cardboard, and Geno’s wrists are chafed raw from the horrible ropes. He’s been stuck with his least favorite duo for three whole days, during which Kane and Toews have managed two screaming fights and four staring contests.

Toews won’t let Kane feed him and Kane’s taking it as some sort of personal rejection, and Geno’s burning so hot inside at the idea of what they might be doing to Sid that it feels like anger is all he’ll ever be. It doesn’t help that Geno’s watched Ovechkin do interrogations, and he wants to vomit at the thought of that happening to any of his teammates, but especially to Sid.

Sid tells him sometimes, in the quiet moments before training or jogging, more stories about the Wraith and what they’ve done. It makes Geno feel queasy and Sid looks pale. Only once did Sid ever mention what would happen to him if the Wraith finally caught up to him, and Geno didn’t sleep for two days for the thought of it.

So, it’s not ideal.

But maybe Sid’s stronger than a little human torture, because the true pain of it is mostly mental and Sid’s had a lot of experience living in terror, growing up under the Wraith threat. Or maybe Geno’s going to have to massacre everyone in this fucking city.

It will all depend on how many pieces they find Sid in.

 

* * *

 

“You gotta eat something,” Patrick says, a week into their captivity. Galchenyuk’s been gone for a few days, Crosby for longer, and Jonny's still being weird about letting Patrick feed him, like smushing his face into a bowl of porridge every morning is totally working for him. Patrick’s not trying to do it because he gets some great joy out of it or whatever; he’s just doing what he can to keep what’s left of his team alive.

“I know,” Jonny sighs, shoulders slumping. “I just-- fine, it’s fine.” He rocks himself into a kneeling position and nods down at the bowls left just inside the door.

“C’mon,” he says when Patrick hesitates.

Patrick grabs the bowl from the floor and forms a plan of attack; Jonny seems determined to make this as awkward as possible, not tipping his head back or relaxing.

“Back,” Patrick orders, slipping his fingers into Jonny’s hair and tugging lightly, which is really all that he can manage with how short it is. “Open up. Just like for water.”

Jonny glares but does what he says, tilting his face up and letting Patrick press the rim of the bowl against his lips. Patrick tips the bowl forward slowly but Jonny jerks back.

“Don’t choke me,” he warns, eyes narrowing. Patrick scoffs and presses the bowl back in, but Jonny pulls away again.

“I’m serious,” Jonny says.

“Yeah, I hear you,” Patrick assures, cupping the back of his head a little tighter, and Jonny holds still while Patrick pours some of the oatmeal into his mouth. “You gotta swallow, too,” he reminds when Jonny’s cheeks start to bulge, and Jonny gives him another murderous look over the lip of the bowl.

The click of his throat when he swallows is loud, at least to Patrick’s ears.

Jonny keeps squirming around, sitting back on his haunches and then up on his knees, twisting in Patrick’s grip, so Patrick maybe grabs a little too hard onto the back of Jonny’s neck when Jonny pulls back too far and jerks, spilling a mouthful of porridge down his chin and onto his tac-vest.

 _Oh_ , Patrick thinks, staring dumbly at the mess dripping down Jonny’s face. Jonny coughs wetly once and then swipes his tongue out to lick his lips. He clears his throat and then looks back up at Patrick, opening his mouth again.

Patrick stops for a minute, even after Jonny rolls his eyes and sticks his tongue out, holding it there, because that’s a very specific--

“Do I get more or not?” Jonny asks, and Patrick snaps back. He’s not-- that’s not-- Jonny’s just asking for more food. Patrick’s careful about the tilt of the bowl this time, going much slower, and they finish without incident.

Geno, though, has a look on his face when Patrick steps in front of him. Patrick decides to use the privileges of his rank and not entertain any questions, silent or not.

 

* * *

 

“Commander Crosby has requested you join him,” the sergeant-at-arms announces, and that seems to take Malkin from ‘planetwide rampage’-levels of anger down to just plain fury, as far as Jonny can tell. They’re escorted out of the prison and into a blocky building a few hundred meters away. The corridors are dark and the doors are all closed, so it’s hard to get a read on the situation, but no one’s shot them yet, so Jonny has to like their odds.

They go down a few flights of stairs into what must be an underground bunker, and the sergeant card-swipes them into a room with a bank-vault door. Crosby and Galchenyuk are inside, along with a bunch of people in Balesh uniforms.

“Sid!” Malkin blurts out, going stock-still.

“Major Kane, Dr. Toews, Lieutenant Malkin,” Crosby nods to each of them in turn. It’s a strangely formal greeting, but the Balesh seem to be a strangely formal people, so who knows. As much as Jonny hates it, they have to trust Crosby to get them out of this.

“How are you feeling?” Patrick asks, as neutrally as possible.

“We’re fine,” Crosby answers, nodding at Galchenyuk. “The food’s much better in here.”

“You have food?” Patrick sounds shocked.

“The sheets are really scratchy,” Galchenyuk assures, as if that makes up for it.

“You have sheets? You have a bed?” Patrick exclaims. Jonny completely understands where he’s coming from; they’ve been sleeping in dirt, on the lumpy bedrolls from their packs.

“We’re just finishing up negotiations,” Crosby interrupts. “As soon as Colonel Keith accepts the terms of our hosts, we will be free to leave.”

“With a visit to the repository?” Jonny cuts in. They’re already flying blind through a distant galaxy, and to go through this particular incarceration without even getting what they came for would be one indignity too many for him.

“Negotiation is a two-way street.” Crosby’s smile is very sharp.

 

* * *

“How many times do they have to tell you to keep your face away from it before you listen?” Kane shouts, shoving Toews out of the way. The arm of the viewfinder attempts to follow and Kane is forced to duck as well.

This is both above and below Geno’s pay grade, so he stands to the side and tries to look menacing for the handful of Balesh guards surrounding them. His wrists have bright red chafe marks around them, and the stress of thinking Sid was dead in a ditch somewhere and that he’d never get to sleep in his shitty cot in Atlantis again has probably taken years off his life. It’s not hard, to say the least, to look menacing.

“It wouldn’t even do anything,” Toews snaps. “I don’t have the gene.”

“You could get stuck,” Patrick points out.

The whole repository is about the size of an ice cream truck, with an access hatch on one side and a viewing panel on the other. There’s a retractable viewfinder that keeps trying to latch onto the closest human. Geno knows the danger; General O’Neill had been grabbed by one in the Milky Way and it had forcibly downloaded all the Ancient knowledge into his brain, which then prompted a difficult and painful Ascension.

Kane is reading from the panel and Toews is taking photos while Sid keeps the Balesh lieutenant busy, lest he ask questions about what they’re actually looking up.

So, Geno’s just hanging around, trying to keep a safe distance from anything likely to melt his brain, when he sees a strange glint on a corner of the machine. It’s a little below eye-level and out of place on the stone-carved facade of the repository, so Geno comes over, just for a quick look. There’s the flash again, way brighter than it was before, and then --

_\--fucking stupid, i’m never going to get that fellowship if all my work is classified._

Geno’s never been in the running for a fellowship. Is this the first sign of heatstroke? He tugs at his shemagh and thinks about wearing it fully.

_go on, take one more step towards that thing and see if i save you_

Geno jerks back from the repository on instinct. The guard to his left looks up in surprise when Geno moves so quickly, and Geno’s attempts to play it off as casual are probably not as successful as he’d like. He’s still not convinced anything’s wrong until he looks at Sid and feels the germ of a thought that’s definitely not his.

_touched something, didn’t you?_

 

* * *

 

They make it back to Atlantis and into a senior team meeting without any more ambushes.

“The bracelets are actually more like handcuffs,” Jonny says, making a cutting motion with his hand at what’s shaping up to be one of Patrick’s better leers, “meant for prisoner transport. Like we thought. If you exceed the set range, they emit electrical pulses that disrupt the autonomic nervous system and can cause death, depending on the nature of the disruption.”

“So,” Giroux continues, “we were afraid to interrupt the packet data exchanges in case that might trigger some failsafe and just kill you both. But having done more research, I’m confident that this can be solved.”

“Great,” Keith nods. “How do we fix it?”

Jonny and Giroux share a look that promises nothing good.

“Well,” Giroux hesitates, “because Specialist Hall was the first to put it on, we believe the bracelets have assumed he is in charge of the whole operation.”

“Does anyone find it weird that we’re talking about jewelry like it’s a person?” Patrick asks, just to check. Everyone ignores him, as anticipated.

“So he’s gotta be the one to turn it off,” Jonny finishes. “With the power of his mind.”

“Then it’s never gonna work,” Eberle sighs, and Hall gets a pretty solid shot to the doctor’s side in with his elbow.

“Maybe it would be easier in the lab, without everyone staring at you?” Seabrook suggests, and Hall looks relieved as he nods.

So, Patrick goes to the officer’s gym three levels down and makes a point not to obsess, which is an exercise in self-control that lasts about an hour, especially after Captain Chu and Sergeant Kessel walk in on him on the treadmill doing hand motions to the _“face down, ass up”_ part of “How Low”.

“I dunno, sir, how low _can_ you go?” Chu asks, a towel draped around her shoulders.

Kessel just shakes her head and tugs on Chu’s arm.

“C'mon Chuey, I don’t wanna see what comes next.”

“ _They’re getting nowhere and eventually we’re gonna have to make it official_ ,” Biz says over a private channel when Patrick calls him on the comm as they leave, laughing themselves stupid when he tries to reassert his authority. “So I was thinking something small for their wedding. You know, real tasteful. Maybe doves?”

“A _dozen_ doves,” Patrick corrects, and goes to pass out in his quarters until somebody’s on fire or Hall and Eberle are unstuck.

 

* * *

 

“Concentrate, Hallsy,” Ebs says for the eightieth time. If Taylor’s concentrating on punching him in the face, well, it’s still following orders.

“My gene was never going to be as strong as yours,” he grumbles, giving Ebs a light shove for good measure. “I’m doing my best.”

“Your best isn’t doing it right now.” Ebs sighs and stands up to resume his pacing circuit around the infirmary.

“You’re like a living demotivational poster,” Taylor says, tugging half-heartedly on the cuff again in case it’s spontaneously decided to come off in the last thirty seconds.

“How dare you! I’m an inspiration,” Ebs shoots back, but at least he’s smiling. “What did you used to work on with Heightmeyer to activate stuff?”

“She made me think of a meadow,” Taylor furrows his brow. It never made him feel relaxed or warm or anything like the gene should. “Or an empty room, or just a big space. And then I would look down, and the thing would be in front of me. And I would imagine it working. It’s a lot easier when I know what the thing does,” he confesses. “Then I can see it working right away.”

“Well,” Ebs comes around and sits on the cot across from Taylor’s. “You _are_ in an empty room now, and the bracelet is right there.” He gives Taylor something that’s probably supposed to be a meaningful look, so Taylor decides to try it and closes his eyes.

“Not feeling it, man,” he says, fists clenching in frustration. His eyes are still shut so he jumps a little in surprise when Ebs leans forward and twines their fingers together. It’s unexpectedly intimate.

“So the room isn’t working for you, whatever,” Ebs says softly, and he sounds so close. “Pick something else. What do you like to do? What reminds you of home?”

“Hockey,” Taylor answers quickly, and instantly he’s back on the pond outside his house. It’s the winter, his friends are there, and he can feel the glide of his skates that are still from last year, a little small. It’s the daydream he usually slips into.

“Okay, yeah, I like hockey, too.” Ebs replies, squeezing their hands together briefly. “Are you at a complex?”

Taylor shakes his head. “Backyard. My mom got my dad to build a rink every year so I could practice.”

“So... imagine that you’re there, but not a specific time. Just feel the ice.” Taylor nods, and he surfaces from the memory long enough to realize that he’s twisting his hands around Ebs’. “And you’re skating, like you could go for hours, yeah? Remember that?” Another nod. “Okay, so you look down and there’s the puck right on your tape, and you look up, and I’m right there.”

“Where’d you play?” Taylor murmurs. He just needs the uniform to get an idea, he’s already pretty deep but it needs to look real, to really get Ebs there with him--

“Saskatchewan,” Ebs answers. “Red and white.”

“Okay,” Taylor says again.

“Now you’re looking at me,” Ebs continues, and he shifts forward so their knees knock together in the space between the cots, “but you’ve still got the bracelet on. Can you see it under your glove?”

Taylor nods. It’s heavy and warm, despite the cold weather, and it’s throwing him off-balance. He wants it gone.

“Good. I’ve got one too, and we can’t play like that. So you tell them to turn off,” Ebs gives an extra squeeze to his fingers, “and they just fall off, onto the ice.”

Taylor imagines it, the sudden lightness around his wrist, and he can almost _hear_ the clack of the devices hitting the rink.

“Shit,” Ebs breathes, and Taylor fights to open his eyes like he’s coming up for air, bursting through the surface of some water, sluggish, and the bracelets are there on the floor of the infirmary.

Ebs gives him a blinding smile that highlights the gap in his teeth.

“Biz is going to be so devastated,” Ebs says, not making any move to separate their hands. “He wanted to be my best man.”

 

* * *

 

They’ve made it back to base, they’ve rescued Hall and Eberle, and Geno still hasn’t said anything about what happened. Not that Sidney’s going to pressure him, but Sidney’s definitely going to pressure him. Keeping sprains and cuts from a team leader is one thing, but Ancient tech is not to be messed with, and something clearly happened on Bale.

“Is Geno being weird lately?” he asks Jack during a grappling session.

“Like how?” Jack huffs out, trying to flip them but overestimating Sidney’s center of gravity and ending up on his back again.

“Cagey… quiet.”

“He’s always cagey and quiet,” Jack laughs, and this time he gets the flip right and Sidney’s breath punches out of him as his back hits the mat.

“Maybe to you,” Sidney says, putting in the right amount of haughtiness to get Jack half-amused and half-pissed; it’s great for distracting him in a fight.

“Are you his _special friend_?” Jack teases, wrapping a leg over Sidney’s hips and trying to roll him onto his side. Sid’s not planning to give him his back, so he slips Jack’s armbar and reverses. Jack gets him into a lot of submission holds but can never finish them, so he tires out easily; Sid just has to wait him out.

“No, I’m just worried.” He twists over Jack and onto his back, wrapping his thighs around Jack’s waist and squeezing. Jack jams an elbow back into Sidney’s ribs but Sidney doesn’t relent, catching Jack’s throat in the crook of his elbow and gradually increasing the pressure while his other arm pins Jack’s left hand.

"You could talk to him," Jack grits out, tumbling forward into a roll that slams Sidney into the mat.

"Has that ever worked for you?" Sidney counters, still squeezing Jack's throat. It's a good hold but Jack's much heavier and still lying on top of him, so it won't last.

"No, but he just glares at me whenever I'm around," Jack says. "I'm sure he'd be better with you."

"Maybe," Sidney admits. He jerks to the side, managing to slide Jack away, but the price he pays is losing his submission hold, so they reset.

"Are you being shy about this?" Jack presses. He reaches a hand out slowly and Sidney slaps it away a couple of times. They're just circling each other now.

"No," Sidney says, but Jack raises an eyebrow. "No," he repeats, more firmly.

"Oh my god, you wanna put your mouth on his mouth!" Jack says with faux surprise. Sidney knows it’s just bait to throw off his concentration but he still feels his hackles raise, and Jack uses his distraction to plow into him back into the mat. Jack settles between Sidney’s thighs and spreads out on top of him, twisting around to reach for Sid’s hand.

“Shut up,” Sidney mumbles as he locks his ankles in the small of Jack’s back and tries to escape the armbar. Any mouth-putting is his own business, and Jack can just stay out of it.

 

* * *

 

This is not the weirdest thing that's ever happened to Geno; it's not even the weirdest thing to happen _this week_. He still feels the exhaustion from the mission, he still feels foolish for being homesick, and he still feels like this is the most important work he’s ever done. The mud and sweat is ground into every pore of his body, three showers and two Ancient saunas later. All his uniforms are beyond repair. His knee is acting up again.

And he can read minds.

If he’s being honest, it’s making things easier. He doesn’t have to rely so much on body language to understand the other members of the expedition, and now he knows for sure that Ovechkin put a lot of unkind thoughts about him into Galchenyuk and Yakupov.

He’s loathe to give it up and reluctant to tell anyone who might want to draw a lot of blood samples and keep him in the infirmary for a few weeks. He saw what happened to Hall.

So, he will just deal with it and avoid Sidney, who most definitely realizes that something’s up.

 

* * *

 

“Something wrong with your eye?” Patrick asks when they assemble in the gateroom. They’re going to another planet where the locals most likely won’t try to shoot them when they ask to barter for some of the not-wheat harvest.

“What? No,” Geno says, careful to keep his face blank. It’s harder when he realizes that his eye _is_ sort of twitching.

Patrick gives him an evaluating glare for a minute, but all he says is, “Try not to look so... _that_ ,” encompassed with a handwave, “when we meet the Taleese.”

_definitely gonna get shot if he keeps that up._

Which makes Geno bristle, because he may the the member of SGA-1 with the least experience, but he’s also the one who’s spent the least amount of time bargaining for his own release on hostile planets -- and that includes Sidney, who now has a shiny new Tau’ri lieutenant’s rank. (Something about paperwork, Seabrook had said.)

_\--is stupid and you’re all stupid, and why am i even here? i hate gate travel--_

He catches snatches here and there, when he’s not concentrated on a task or doing anything in particular. It seems to be increasing from more than just snippets, though, and he feels a headache starting at the base of his skull, dull and painful. He pushes it aside and tightens his grip on his gun, shifting from foot to foot in an effort to ignore it.

Ignoring it proves harder than expected, what with Toews’ whining at himself while they wait for Bollig to get his shit together and dial their gate. Geno can’t even bother getting too deep into Toews’ problems. They keep their distance and that seems to work.

 

* * *

 

Sidney’s keeping an eye on the proceedings while Major Kane bends over a sack of grain, inspecting the quality -- what qualifies Kane for grain inspection duty, Sidney’s not exactly sure. Geno’s standing apart from the rest of them, his shoulders tense, and Sidney frowns. He starts towards him and hesitates, thinking back to the conversation with Jack, but he puts it aside.

“Are you thinking about your home?” he asks, noticing the way Geno’s staring out at the fields surrounding them. His face has been blank for a while.

Geno doesn’t respond, so Sidney reaching out a hand and touching his shoulder. “Geno?”

Geno jerks back, whole body animating at once, and his hands slide around the grip of his P-90 before he looks down at Sidney.

“Oh,” he says, relaxing. “Sorry. I’m think too much, get lost.”

“That’s fine,” Sidney says, although it definitely isn’t. Losing focus while in security is never fine. He withdraws his hand and hooks his thumbs into the straps on his vest. Years of military training have drilled out the habit of putting his hands in his pockets while in uniform, but the urge is still there. “I was just wondering if you were thinking about your home. You seemed really, uh, intent on these fields.”

Geno just shakes his head. “No, home not like this. Just think. No worries.” His smile almost looks genuine, no strain, but Sidney’s talent has always been observation and he’s learned that Geno is a pretty good actor.

“What’s going on with you?” he asks, and he can hear that _whine_ in his voice, the one his mother used to tell him made him sound like a child, but he’s worried and his mother has been dead for a long time.

Geno just shakes his head and says, “Nothing, Sidney. Is okay.” He claps Sidney lightly on the shoulder and then moves away to stand next to one of the Taleesian guards. She gives him a nod and he nods back, and they both go back to staring out at the far-off treeline.

The whole thing makes something tighten in Sidney’s chest, a pressure inside him that makes the tips of his fingers tingle. He’s lost people before -- he’s lost _a lot_ of people before -- and for the most part, he’s okay. He’s not happy with those failures, and there will always be a part of him that thinks he could have done more, but he knows that he has to keep moving. Grieving for the past is not going to help his people in the present, and they need him the most.

But at the same time, he can count on one hand the number of people in Atlantis who truly trust him, who don’t smile to his face but move their trays away from his in the mess, who don’t look at him out of the corner of their eye when he walks past. Most of the people who don’t treat him him with suspicion or like an oddity are on his away team, in fact. So the thought that Geno is hiding something is-- upsetting.

“So, the Taleese are gonna trade with us,” Kane says, motioning SGA-1 into a huddle. “Which is awesome, and I am officially winning against Shawzy and Price in the Most Kickass Team Leader pool.”

“There is no way that’s true,” Toews says, appearing at Kane’s shoulder. He has cream smeared across his nose, some concoction he’d made in the labs that was supposed to prevent skin from burning. Sidney’s people had mostly used logic about not being in the sun with unprotected skin for too long.

“Can go now?” Geno asks, a tone in his voice. Kane’s eyebrows turn down, but he doesn’t say anything about it.

“Not yet,” Toews says. “We’re gonna have dinner with the Taleesian Council to make everything official. We’ll leave tomorrow morning.”

Geno’s lips purse.

“Eh, it’ll be fun,” Kane says. “But no dancing.” He levels a serious glare at all of them.

 

* * *

 

Geno manages to avoid any more conversations by shadowing Toews for the rest of the day. The whole team went on the obligatory diplomatic tour of the Taleesian town, with Kane half-heartedly taking a few photos for Giroux and Bissonette, and then had been given a few hours to themselves. Kane roped a reluctant Sidney into helping him iron out the remaining details of the trade agreement, and Toews talked one of the council members into an in-depth tour of their water collection and filtration system.

Geno goes with him to give his mind something to focus on besides the pieces of other people’s thoughts that keep flashing through him. The mindreading would be a better and way more effective tool if he could control it, select what he hears and when, but as it is, it’s been a solid week of snippets of unfiltered thoughts. It’s keeping him from sleeping, keeping him from focusing, and keeping him from being his best on missions.

So it’s nice to be with Toews and the council member, because even their internal thoughts are mostly about the water system and how it compares to what they know about the system on Atlantis. If they think of Geno, it’s only to make sure that he’s still with them.

As an added bonus, Toews and the council member talk until they’re in danger of being late for the dinner, so he and Geno slide in right before the welcome speeches and Sidney has to settle for shooting him concerned looks all evening.

After dinner, a few militia officers corner Sidney and want to talk Scotian, Atlantean, and Taleesian strategy. Geno slips back to their quarters unnoticed.

 

* * *

 

They come back from the mission to find that Sharpy is now invisible, because _of course_ they fucking do. Jonny only blames himself, really, because what else did he expect would happen when he left Sharpy and the science staff alone?

The official cause is an Ancient cloaking device that runs similarly to the puddlejumper cloaking, and Sharpy had been using it to prank the everloving hell out of the science and engineering departments. That had been all fun and games until he discovered that he couldn’t remove it. Dr. Szabados had cornered the market on paintball guns that she made out of busted P-90s as a form of defense against Sharpy when it had been two days of fun pranks. Now it’s day four and no one is laughing.

Well, Jonny’s laughing a little. On the inside.

“I can’t eat, I can’t drink anything good, I dunno what I’m gonna do, To-es,” Sharpy says while Jonny scans the device for the third time. Well, he’s running the scanner over where Sharpy had _told_ him the device was, placed in the center of his chest, but Jonny can’t actually see him or the thing.

“Maybe you should have examined it a little more before putting it on,” Jonny suggests, leaning over to double check that the readouts are appearing on his tablet.

The thing is emitting a forcefield that bends the light around Sharpy, making him invisible, but it also means that Sharpy can’t reach through the forcefield to turn it off and can’t get any food through it. Water seems to be able to get through, thankfully, but not sports drinks or MRE milkshakes or anything.

“Hindsight is 20/20,” Sharpy snaps. “Just fix it.”

“It’s a process,” Jonny retorts, going back to look at his notes. Everything they do with Ancient tech has an element of unknown danger; if something went really wrong with Goa’uld stuff, there was always the outside chance of getting a message to the Tok’ra for their help. Dr. Jackson had shown that the ascended Ancients had zero interest in offering any assistance, even in dire circumstances.

The idea of Sharpy watching Sharpy die slowly of starvation is a hateful one, and Jonny refuses to entertain it. He’ll solve this.

 

*

 

Jonny would probably have more time to solve Sharpy’s problem if he didn’t get laid out on his ass the next day by Lieutenant Malkin.

He’s going over his notes in the gateroom with Nail and Dr. Wickenheiser, who’s stepping in for him on SGA-1 until Sharp’s thing is handled, when Malkin stumbles into one of the dialing consoles as they’re gearing up.

“You okay?” Patrick asks, but Malkin waves him off.

“Fine,” he says, straightening up. He’s grimacing, though, and only makes it a few more steps before his eyes roll back and he slumps onto Jonny, who squawks and thrashes. They both go down like felling a redwood.

“Holy shit!” Patrick shouts, and it takes Wickenheiser and Crosby to roll Malkin off of him and onto the stretcher that the corpsmen bring over.

Malkin’s whisked off to Eberle’s infirmary, leaving Jonny lying on the ground, winded and dazed. Seabrook appears in his vision, looking concerned.

“How’d it feel being up close and personal with Russia’s best?” Bollig chirps while Seabrook offers Jonny a hand. Jonny grabs at it and stands up, taking a beat to get himself sorted.

“It was great, four stars. I recommend it for everyone.”

“Eberle’s running an MRI, but he’s responsive and tracking well,” Seabrook says, clicking off his comm. “Looks like he was just a little overloaded.”

Jonny grunts and pulls at his tac-vest.

“Can I go back to my labs now? I’ve got more tests to run and I left Sharp with that television set we found in a transporter on the lower decks that he thinks can read dreams.”

Seabrook rolls his eyes but nods. “Keep your comm open in case Eberle needs you. And figure out a way to make Sharpy not invisible already,” he calls after Jonny.

 

* * *

 

Geno wakes up in the infirmary and immediately weighs the benefits of pretending he’s still out. Sidney is slumped in one of the desk chairs at the side of his cot, staring blankly at the other side of the infirmary where Dr. Eberle is taking notes on his tablet. Nail is puttering around, checking Geno’s vitals every now and then and tidying up the supply cart. Kane and Toews are passed out on the cot next to his, Kane’s arm flung over Toews’ face.

He feels powerfully embarrassed for causing such a scene, for letting his condition affect him this much and compromising mission readiness. There’s no excuse, and now the whole base knows about it. Maybe he can pretend to be asleep until the expedition is ready to go home.

“ _I know that you’re awake_ ,” Nail says in Russian, and Sidney perks up a little.

“What?” he asks, scrubbing a hand over his face.

“What happen?” Geno says, opening his eyes and pushing himself up a little. No point pretending any longer.

“Your frontal lobe is lit up like a Christmas tree, that’s what happened,” Eberle says, coming over to Geno’s cot. He flips his tablet around so Geno can see his brain scan. “It’s basically on overload, and all that pressure has been giving you trouble sleeping, eating, and concentrating.”

Geno sighs and lies back; his head is pounding and his vision is blurry at the edges, and he’s not really sure what’s an effect of the mindreading or an effect of exhaustion. He knows he can’t spend the whole time sedated but it’s a really, really attractive option right now.

“So... is there something you’d like to tell us, Lieutenant?” Eberle asks, leaning over Geno and taking out his penlight.

“No,” Geno says, on the off-chance everyone will let it drop. He glances to his left and sees Sidney glaring. “I mean, I’m… I’m maybe can hear you, in your head.”

“Bullshit,” Yakupov says, looking surprised. Of course his English involves flawless pronunciation of swears. The military is good for that.

“True,” Geno says. “It happen on Bale. I’m not say anything because I’m don’t want my team worry.”

“Too late,” Sidney says with a scowl.

“Of course your team was going to worry about you,” Eberle says softly. He’s frowning a little. “Seabrook ordered them to mandatory rest but they wanted to be here in case you woke up.” He nods his head at Kane and Toews.

“I’m sorry,” Geno says. He honestly means it, not like those half-apologies he gave to his superiors on Earth.

“So, what are we going to do about it?” Sidney asks. Eberle leans over and swats Kane’s boot with his palm.

Kane jerks awake and lands a pretty good smack on Toews’ face. Toews rolls over and right off the edge of the cot.

“I’m up, it’s fine, I’m fine,” Kane mutters, sitting up. Toews pops up behind him and glares.

“Well, mindreading is not something you really cover in med school,” Eberle says. Geno glances over and sees Kane’s eyes widen. “But, luckily for you, it is something we cover in the Stargate Program every now and then.” He comes forward to perch on the end of Geno’s cot. “The most common thing across the SGC case reports I’ve read seems to be creating an anchor with someone -- like, focus on them and them only. It helps in blocking everyone else out.”

Focusing on all the uninhibited thoughts of one person instead of pieces of thoughts from many people seems like six of one, half-dozen of the other, but Geno guesses he might have to trust the doctor on this one. That particular train of thought lasts for about five seconds, because Eberle turns to Sidney -- still glaring -- and says, “Commander Crosby, I understand that you taught Major Kane how to meditate.”

Sidney’s look turns suspicious. “Yes, I did.”

“Working great, by the way,” Kane interjects. “I’ve got that shit on lock.”

“Would you consider doing the same for Lieutenant Malkin?” Eberle says.

Sidney nods. “Yes.”

“Great,” Kane says, hopping off his cot. “SGA-1 will sit out of the rotation for a few days so you can find your groove.” He pauses, raising one eyebrow as he looks between Sidney and Geno. “You’ll probably have to spend a lot of time together so you can focus your thoughts and stuff. Executive order -- Commander, you can move your stuff into Malkin’s quarters.”

Geno catches Sidney’s face scrunching up as pink begins to rise in his cheeks, but he nods again.

“ _You_ can’t issue an executive order, it has to come from Keith or Seabrook,” Toews says, and Kane rolls his eyes before following Toews out of the room to continue the argument.

Sidney and Geno just look at each other for a moment before Eberle produces a sedative and orders Geno to rest. Sidney lays down on the cot Kane and Toews vacated and they spend the time until Geno passes out in awkward silence.

 

* * *

 

Malkin can read minds, Sharpy is invisible, and Patrick’s just rolling with the punches. Weird shit’s been happening to him ever since he joined the SGC program, and being in another galaxy doesn’t change the weird shit. It just means it’s way more inconvenient.

So when he gets the call that SGA-4 found a huge storage shed on Pier 2, he’s not concerned. The Ancients clearly got rid of all the good stuff before they ascended; everything left is lab equipment or kitchen supplies. No death rays and definitely no ZPMs.

When the call comes in that Bollig and Poulin are now locked in that storage shed, Patrick is still not concerned. They’re highly trained operatives, and even his scientists don’t totally understand all the Ancient mechanics for things like door locks. It’s probably an accident. He heads over there anyway, meeting Keith and Seabrook in the elevators.

He feels vindicated when Jonny and Sharpy -- well, he assumes Sharpy is there, he can’t tell -- manage to pop the door and Poulin and Bollig are standing on the other side, covered in dust but no worse for wear. At their feet are several large canisters about the size and shape of a helium tank.

“What’s up?” Patrick asks, nodding at the canisters.

“Isn’t this the Ancient symbol for a ZedPM?” Poulin asks, pointing to a section of Ancient writing on the side.

“What’s a _Zed_ PM? Is that like a _Zee_ PM?” Patrick asks. He sees Poulin and Bollig share a grin.

“Are you a moron?” Toews says. “ _Zed_ PM.”

“ _Zee_ PM,” Patrick insists. “Because ‘zed’ is not a letter.”

“You know what, I don’t blame you,” Jonny says. “I blame your education system.”

Patrick and Jonny both know that their guys start this just to get a reaction out of them. What Patrick doesn’t know is why Jonny rises to the bait every single time.

“Whatever,” Patrick says, just to watch the way Jonny’s fists clench, “we should see what’s inside.”

“Labs?” Jonny says, but Keith interrupts.

“If this is a ZPM, I want to know now.” He nods to Poulin and Bollig. “Go ahead.”

Patrick watches as they roll the canister around for a few minutes, trying to find a latch or a seam, but they’re having trouble even telling which way is up.

“Let me try,” Seabrook offers, kneeling down. “Duncs, can you help me move this?”

Keith bends over to help him twist the canister so that the writing is facing up and then begins running his fingers over all of the symbols. The one near the end of the tube lights up.

“Oh,” is all Seabrook gets out before he and Keith are enveloped in a purple cloud.

 

* * *

 

“Jon! Jonny! The table is cold!” Seabrook shouts, batting away Eberle’s hands as the doctor tries to scan him again. Given that Seabrook now looks all of six years old, it’s a clumsy maneuver.

“If you stay on the table I’ll give you ice cream,” Jonny says, arms crossed.

“Ice cream before dinner?” Kane asks, mouth turned down.

“It’s not going to ruin their appetites,” Jonny protests. Seabrook had eaten three squeezable tubes of peanut butter from Jonny’s MRE stash while they were setting up the quarantine in the infirmary and he still claims to be hungry.

“I don’t want ice cream!” Keith shouts from the next cot.

“It’s not even real ice cream,” Patrick says. “It’s freeze dried. They put it in a big vacuum and took all the water out.”

“Gross,” Keith says. After a pause he adds, “I want some right now.”

“You have to wait until Doctor Eberle is finished,” Patrick says. Keith doesn’t squirm as much as Seabrook but he obviously doesn’t like being examined. Too bad for him, though -- the two most senior leaders on this expedition are now children, and they’re going to deal with however much poking and prodding Ebs needs to do to solve this.

 

* * *

 

“Nanites,” Eberle announces to the senior staff. “They are totally full of nanites that are replacing their cells at an unbelievable rate.”

“What does that mean, exactly?” Patrick asks. He knows they’ve gone up against nanites in the Milky Way, but they never did anything like this.

“The nanites are teeny tiny robots,” Eberle says, “and they used the genetic history in Seabrook and Keith’s bodies to destroy and rebuild them from the inside out.”

“What the fuck?” Patrick says, jaw dropping.

“Nanites can replicate organic matter, and these ones basically rewrote their cells to the way they were when they were children using the genetic information stored in each cell.”

“Is this part of their programming, or have they gone rogue?” Shaw says.

“Not sure yet,” Eberle says. “The fact that every nanite is doing the same thing makes me think it’s on purpose, but that’s just a theory.”

“Doctor, Major,” Fleury's voice comes over their comms, “Need you in the infirmary. We’re in the middle of an unauthorized game of hide-and-seek again.”

Patrick looks over to see Jonny put his face in his hands.

 

* * *

 

Eberle determines that the nanites aren’t spreading, so he allows Keith and Seabrook out of quarantine. Keith insists on following Shawzy everywhere, and Seabrook won’t leave Jonny’s side. Patrick finds them in Jonny’s lab.

“Jonny, I can see in the dark!” Seabrook squeaks, whipping his head around so fast that the night vision glasses almost fly off. Jonny grunts and tries to see the spectrometer readouts over Seabs’ head. Patrick leans against the door, waiting for Jonny to notice he’s there. Seabrook beats him to it.

“Kaner!” he bellows, wriggling down from Jonny’s lap and charging at his shins. He grabs them and tries to pull Patrick down, but Patrick sweeps him up into his arms and engages in a tickle fight instead.

“You’re gonna get him too hyped up to sleep,” Jonny says without turning around, and Patrick shrugs.

“Ebs’ problem, not mine.”

“Look who’s here for a visit!” Shawzy announces, bouncing into the room. Keith is hanging off him in a piggyback, arms wrapped around his neck. “Flower is going to take us for a ride in a jumper and we thought Seabs might want to come.” Seabs, of course, being the only name Seabrook will answer to.

“Depends. Did Flower finish that report about the mermaid tribe?” Patrick asks.

“Dr. Knight is adding a few more notes and then he’ll send it in,” Shaw says. Seabs bids them goodbye and skips out, taking Shawzy’s hand and babbling loudly about the cool stuff he’s been doing in the twenty minutes since he and Keith last saw each other.

“We need to do something about Malkin,” Patrick says, leaning against the workbench next to Jonny.

Jonny sighs and pulls away from the viewfinder. “What can we do? This is uncharted territory, in every sense. Crosby’s going to help him focus. Beyond that, I don’t know.”

“What if we went back to the repository?” Patrick starts. Jonny immediately shakes his head.

“Can’t go back, it was one of the terms of the agreement.”

“Do you think this could be a tactical advantage? If he could control it.”

“That’s all academic, because he can’t control it. It almost killed him,” Jonny says.

“Since when are you against things that are totally academic?” Patrick complains. He’s struck by a dark thought. “You don’t think he was trying to keep it from us because he wants to use it for himself, do you? Maybe even once we get back to Earth?”

Jonny stands up and gives Patrick a light shove as he walks over to his desk. “No. Well-- maybe. But not anymore, it’s too painful.” He raises an eyebrow. “And who’s saying we’re going to make it back to Earth?”

“We’re going to make it back because of my awesome leadership, and you’re going to look really stupid when Malkin takes over the world or whatever with his awesome powers.”

“Have you _seen_ Malkin lately? He looks like shit. He definitely doesn’t want to be able to read minds for the rest of his life. Plus, he’s had this ability for a while now and he doesn’t seem to know any of the state secrets about Pop Tarts and bald eagles.” Jonny unlocks his tablet and pulls up the SGC papers database. “Now go away. I have reading to do.”

Patrick pauses in the doorway. “Eggo waffles are the only breakfast food covered by state secret and you know that.”

Jonny manages to crack a smile, so Patrick decides to leave on a high note.

 

* * *

 

“Is not work,” Geno says with a sigh, unfolding himself from his place on the floor across from Sidney.

“It’s not working because you’re not concentrating,” Sidney counters, relaxing out of his meditation pose. He’s not sure what it says about Geno that it was easier to get Major Kane to sit still for this.

“I’m concentrate,” Geno insists. He takes a quick drink out of his canteen on the table and goes to stare out the window.

“You have to trust me if this is going to work,” Sidney says. “You never fully relax.”

Geno just glowers.

They haven’t left each other’s side for almost four days now, and Sidney suspects they’re both at the end of their ropes. Eberle and Toews haven’t made much progress on Geno’s condition because they’re dealing with Sharp -- and now Keith and Seabrook -- and they seem to think Sidney can handle it. Which he totally could, if Geno would just let go of that tightness that keeps him constantly on guard.

He knows they’re not going to be hosting a commitment ceremony any time soon, but he thought they were at least friends. Sid’s spent the last few days thinking nothing but positive, reassuring thoughts for Geno to focus on, and he’s purposefully kept his mind at that low-level blankness of the first meditative stage.

And honestly, all this calmness is starting to drive him crazy.

 

* * *

 

“I need some good news, doc,” Patrick says as he swings into the infirmary. Eberle looks up from a chart. “I mean,” Patrick shrugs, “I want great news but I’ll settle for good.”

“Well,” Eberle says, walking towards the bank of monitors, “as you can see, I’ve had a small success in getting the nanites to reverse the damage they did to Colonel Keith and Dr. Seabrook’s cells.”

Patrick stares over Eberle’s shoulder at the images and scan readouts on the screens. It’s not actually clear to him what’s happening, but if Ebs says it’s a success -- sure, he believes it.

“I sent a bunch of the technical reports from the SGC over to some of Wickenheiser’s guys and they’ve started trying to reprogram the nanites. I think we could push the update to all of them because we’ve done it before, under the Mountain. But it’s a matter of getting it exactly right. Who knows what could happen if we got even one line wrong?”

Patrick imagines getting even one line wrong would involve Seabrook or Keith coming out of it with an extra hand or something.

“How soon do you think we could have this resolved?” he says.

Eberle pulls a face. “Hard to say. Soon, if nothing else pops up.”

Patrick nods. He’ll just have to make sure nothing weird gets in the way of his team.

 

* * *

 

Galchenyuk comes back from M2X-004 and vomits in the gateroom, so he’s quarantined and sent to sick bay. Jonny thinks that’s the end of it until Eberle keys into his lab.

“I’m very busy!” Jonny snaps.

“I think there’s a chance Lieutenant Galchenyuk is pregnant,” Eberle says, brandishing a medical chart in Jonny’s face, “and you’re the only other member of the senior staff not already occupied.”

“I _am_ occupied!” Jonny says, and shuts the door in Eberle’s face.

He has, of course, forgotten that Eberle, also a member of the senior staff, has override access to every room on Atlantis.

“I think Dr. Knight might be the father,” Eberle says, very seriously, as he puts the file down on Jonny’s desk.

 

* * *

 

“Of course she was attractive, Doctor, that’s not the point,” Patrick hears Price say, as he and Biz come through the gate. “I’m not ready to settle down, and definitely not on a planet where it’s fifty degrees every goddamn day.”

“How’d it go?” Patrick asks, coming over to where SGA-3 is downloading their gear.

“Pretty good,” Biz says. “Planet’s a little too close to their sun to grow any excess crops for trade, but the people are friendly. _Really_ friendly, right, Captain?”

Pat raises an eyebrow and looks back and forth between them.

“I may have negotiated myself out of an arranged marriage,” Price says, shrugging. “It was no big thing.”

“It was a very big thing,” Biz says, almost gleefully. “It was great. A+ diplomacy.”

“He tried to get them to take Gallagher instead but they refused,” Galchenyuk says, grinning. Gallagher punches him in the shoulder with some force.

“What _did_ you do?” Pat asks. Price shrugs again.

“Traded all the sunglasses we had. That place is bright as hell.”

Well. At least no one got shot.

 

* * *

 

So Jonny comes back early from the mission to M2X-278 because he gets shot.

“Look at all--” he starts, reaching a hand out and then letting it fall, “Look at all the… colors.”

“I need to know what happened, Doctor,” Captain Chu says, leaning down into Jonny’s space. He’s on his stomach on a table in the infirmary, pants down around his ankles and a sheet over his lower half.

“Lots of-- shouts, shouting,” Jonny says. He rolls his eyes up to look at Chu but can’t seem to raise his head. “Hey, I’m… looking for some people. There’s a guy, he dresses like you but he has stupid hair. And a giant. And… an alien.”

“What’s wrong with him?” Chu asks Eberle, who’s hovering over Jonny.

“I gave him some morphine,” Eberle says. Jonny lets out a loud, high giggle. “Maybe a little more than totally necessary,” Eberle admits. “But he was making it impossible to work on him!”

“What happened?” Chu asks again, face to face with Jonny.

Jonny gasps and parrots, “ _What happened_?”

“You were shot, Doctor. In the ass.”

"Hehe, _ass_ ," Jonny giggles, rubbing his face against the sheet on the cot.

"I need to know about the village." Chu enunciates carefully. "How many people are there? What kind of weapons do they have?"

"Something that shoots arrows is probably a safe guess," Eberle says, twirling the arrow he pulled out of Jonny around his fingers.

 

* * *

 

“How we coming on those nanites?” Patrick asks, poking his head into the infirmary.

“ _Really_?” Eberle shouts back, twisting away to keep Seabrook from smearing handfuls of medical lubricant into his hair. The twisted, empty tube has been knocked off the supply cart and onto the floor at their feet. “Right now?”

“I’m a jellyfish!” Seabrook shouts, swiping his fingers down Eberle’s labcoat.

“You’re not!” Eberle snaps. “You’re a pain in my--”

“ _Doctor_ ,” Patrick interrupts.

“I’m just trying to take his vitals,” Eberle says. “And he managed to find the slimiest thing in the whole room.”

“You’re just lucky Duncs didn’t get into it first,” Patrick says. He pauses for a moment to look around the room. “Where is he, by the way?”

Pat watches Eberle’s eyes widen for about a second before Keith bursts out from behind a cot.

“I’m a jellyfish!” he screeches, waving his arms wildly. He’s got, like, half-a-dozen of the purple nitrile exam gloves blown up and clutched in each fist, and one stretched over his head like a cap.

“You could suffocate!” Eberle shouts, heading towards Keith, who bolts away.

Patrick quietly backs out of the room, deciding not to voice his offer to watch the kids for a couple of hours.

 

* * *

 

“I need a win,” Patrick says when he walks into Jonny’s lab.

Does this guy do anything besides walk from room-to-room and harass his support staff? Jonny has to wonder sometimes.

“I’m serious, anything,” he continues, sprawling out in the chair at Jonny’s desk. “Even a small one.”

Jonny pauses to think for a moment, taking in the way Patrick has spread out, chair tilted as far as it will go and head tipped back. He’s not wearing his uniform blouse, just the t-shirt, and when he rests his hands behind his head, the muscles in his arms stay flexed.

“Sharpy’s not invisible anymore,” Jonny offers, turning back to his notes.

“ _What_?” Patrick exclaims, sitting up. “When did this happen? I haven’t seen him around.”

“I think he’s been avoiding you so you won’t assign him any duties,” Jonny says. “And he wants to keep playing with the dream TV.”

“Is that thing for real?” Patrick asks. Jonny shrugs.

“And just how did the good doctor resolve his problem?” Patrick picks up one of the tablets on Jonny’s desk and begins to flick through the files. “Some old-fashioned hard work and brilliance by Dr. Toews?”

Jonny wants to say yes, make some snappy remark and knock Kane’s boots off of his desk, but he doesn’t.

“No,” he finally says. “The thing just fell off after a while. I think either the battery ran out or it went into sleep mode or something.”

“Wow, not taking all the credit. New one for you, eh?” Patrick looks up from the tablet with a smirk.

“I have no problem giving credit when it’s due,” Jonny says, feeling his hackles raise. “People who say that are jealous.”

Patrick’s smirk is exactly like the attitude Jonny hated under the Mountain, like someone knew something about him, and he holds it for two or three beats before breaking out in a laugh. Jonny’s fists unclench but his heart is still beating fast, a sour taste in his mouth.

“Hey, man, you know I don’t think that about you. Well, I used to,” he admits, tossing the tablet aside and standing up. “But those are just the rumors in the SGC. No one who works with you thinks that.”

Jonny nods awkwardly and tries to put it out of his mind. Patrick throws his arm around Jonny’s shoulders, palm hot where it rests on Jonny’s collarbone.

“C’mon,” he says, and Jonny lets himself be steered towards the door. “Let’s go find Sharpy and pretend we can’t see him so he thinks he’s still invisible.”

There are worse ways to spend an afternoon.

 

* * *

 

“Done,” Wickenheiser says at the next staff meeting, tossing a small storage drive down on the table.

“What?” Patrick asks, but his question is answered when Keith and Seabrook stride through the door after her, normal-size.

“Here’s how it’s going to go,” Keith says with his fiercest look. “You can each write one report about this, for the off-chance that we make it home, and then we will never speak of it again. Dr. Wickenheiser has preserved the program written to alter the nanite behavior in case we need it later.”

“But, sir,” Patrick says earnestly, “don’t you think we should discuss the ramifications of the fact that you are, now, a jellyfish?”

“Care to repeat that, Major Kane?” Keith says darkly. Eberle kicks Patrick under the table.

 

* * *

 

 _Two down, a hundred to go,_ Patrick thinks, sitting in the mess and staring down at his orange scrambled eggs. They don’t taste that different from chicken eggs, but it had taken a few servings before he got used to the color.

Sharpy is visible, even if Patrick and Jonny had spent a solid hour pretending that they could hear but not see him, and Keith and Seabrook are thankfully back to their grown-up selves. Malkin can still read minds, but after the week they’ve had, he’ll take it. And Galchenyuk is not pregnant, which might be the biggest relief of all.

His train of thought is lost when Crosby slams his tray down opposite Patrick.

“This isn’t working,” Crosby says, frustrated.

"Is that on a poster around here or something?" Patrick wonders.

“Geno doesn’t have even half of your focus,” Crosby continues. “I think we have to start considering alternatives to meditation.”

“Like going-back-to-Bale alternatives?” Patrick says.

“Oh no, we’d definitely get shot.” Crosby dismisses him with a handwave. “But you can’t tell me that there isn’t another way to fix this on the Atlantean home world.”

“I’ll get my best and brightest on it,” Patrick promises, because if there’s one thing he enjoys, it’s marking something _officially Jonny’s problem._

 

* * *

 

“Is very stupid,” Malkin complains, resting his chin on his palm and sighing.

It’s not like this is some kind of picnic for Jonny either, and he should have known something was up when Patrick popped into his lab with a shit-eating grin.

“Just keep looking and tell me if you see anything that resembles the thing you touched on Bale,” Jonny says. He pushes a hand through his hair before reaching for his coffee on his desk, but it’s already gone cold.

“Not touch anything, I’m tell hundred times,” Malkin grumbles, flicking through a few more photos. Jonny and the anthros had gone through almost every accessible room and taken carefully-catalogued photos when they first arrived. It seems more efficient to have Malkin go through those, instead of poking around in the rooms.

 _he would probably just set off the lockdown system or something_ , Jonny thinks. He curses when Malkin’s back straightens.

“I’m _not_ ,” Malkin insists.

“Forgot about the mindreading,” Jonny suggests. “From now on, I’ll just say it to your face.”

“Deal,” Malkin says with a nod.

 

* * *

 

“Nothing?” Toews says. Geno doesn’t have to read minds to feel the frustration radiating off of him. “You didn’t see a picture that even _kinda_ looked like what you touched?”

“I’m tell you,” Geno says, voice rising, “Not touch. Not here, not there. Nothing.”

“Okay, okay,” Kane raises his hands, “usually I’m supportive of using violence to solve our problems, but not today. Let’s settle down. We’re working in a scenario in which Geno didn’t touch anything, but he still got weirdo superpowers.” He turns to Geno. “So G, unless you got bitten by a radioactive spider--”

“Spiderman couldn’t read minds!” Toews interjects. Kane’s fists clench.

“I can’t do this with you right now,” he hisses. Toews quiets down with a scowl.

“There’s gotta be another explanation,” he concludes. “Thoughts?” He’s brought his department heads and each team leader in on this meeting, in case someone has some relevant expertise.

“What if Lieutenant Malkin walks us through the moments before and after he realized that something was different?” Fleury asks.

Geno nods. “We on Bale. Doctor Toews is use the machine.” Geno closes his eyes to have a clearer picture, even though he’s run over this moment more than a few times. “I’m not talk to the guard, but I’m look at wall of machine. Not understand the shapes, not reading. Suddenly, big light.”

“Oh no,” Sidney says, at the same time that Giroux says “ _Fuck_.”

“What?” Seabrook demands. Everyone turns to look at them and catches them both frowning.

“Is it--” Giroux asks, turning towards Sidney.

“Yes,” Sidney says, shoulders slumped.

“You wanna share with the class?” Keith asks.

“Don’t take this the wrong way,” Giroux says, speaking directly to Geno, “but you are a little Ascended. Just a bit.”

Geno is not comforted by the fact that the sinking feeling inside of him is echoed by everyone else.

 

* * *

 

“Ascension is basically like evolving, but over the course of a couple of hours instead of thousands of years,” Eberle says during the senior meeting. “Your brain activity increases until it overloads your system. The human body can’t handle full Ascension, which is why you appear to die.”

“Is there ever going to come a point on this mission where we can go a solid week without someone almost dying?” Patrick says.

“Probably not,” Eberle says. “The problem with this is that the changes have occurred on a cellular level. The light you saw,” he turns to Geno, “was probably of a particular wavelength that triggered the Ascension process.”

Jonny raises a hand immediately.

“I’m not saying I totally understand it, just that this is what the evidence points to,” Eberle adds quickly, glancing at Jonny.

“How do we fix it?” Seabrook asks.

Eberle gets a pained look. “Well, sir, we do have a little bit of experience with rewriting cellular code because of the thing we're not supposed to talk about… with you and Dr. Seabrook…”

Keith frowns, and Seabrook’s shoulders slump.

“I’ll call Wickenheiser,” he says. At least they can stop this pre-Ascension. 

 

* * *

 

Zoning out during initial meet-and-greets with locals is never advised. Mostly because it ends up landing unsuspecting people in situations they have _no_ clue about how to get out of.

Patrick finds himself on the end of this, not for the first time, and swears for a good ten seconds in his head before trying to figure out a polite way of asking Sidney what the fuck’s going on, without making it look like he’s asking Sidney what the fuck’s going on.

“What are your thoughts on this, Commander?” he asks instead, and the eyeroll Jonny gives him is more of a _you’re an idiot and I can’t believe you’re commanding officer and less of a you’re going to cause an intergalactic incident because you’re such a moron._

“I’m not an expert in this culture’s traditions, or their language, but what I think they’re asking is if you and Dr. Toews are bonded,” Crosby says slowly.

“Will they give us their ZPM if we say yes?” Jonny says.

Crosby considers it for a moment. “I don’t think they have one, but they might know of someone who does. And they have a healthy agricultural sector, so at least we could start some trading.” Sidney points towards the large fields on the edge of town.

“Giroux?” Patrick asks. Crosby’s status on SGA-1 is still officially marked as _trial basis_ , so about every other time Giroux comes with them, too. The Scotians are still being guarded, but Keith is getting shitty about being down in manpower so Patrick doesn’t see it lasting much longer.

“The Ancients didn’t have much to say about them. They’re known for their ceremonies,” Giroux says, prodding at his tablet but looking unconcerned. “It’s probably insulting to say no.”

“Okay then,” Patrick says, clapping his hands. When he glances over his shoulder, the Veetans are staring at him and Jonny expectantly. “I know this is going to take all of your acting skills, Toews, but it’s time to pretend that you’re the kind of person someone could stand to be around for more than five minutes.”

“Oh no,” Jonny says, deadpan. “You cut me with your razor wit.”

“Perfect, it’s like you are already married,” Giroux says. The Veetan mayor raises her spread arms in a gesture that Crosby and Giroux mirror, so Patrick hastens to do the same. What are the chances that a white lie in a galaxy thousands of lightyears from home will hurt?

 

* * *

 

The mayor and her counselors lead them a few clicks out of town to a small waterfall. In the pool at the base of the falls is a stone pillar with Ancient writing.

“The fuck is going on?” Patrick says. Next to him, Jonny tenses.

“Apparently, there’s more to it than just saying you’re bonded,” Crosby says, keeping an ear on what the mayor is saying to Giroux. “They want to see that the leaders of a team from the homeworld of the Ancients are united in thought and action. You’re going to--” he pauses, brows crunching together in confusion.

“Renew your vows,” Giroux supplies. “You go over to that pillar, put your hands in, and say a few words.”

“This seems like a lot of effort for no ZPM,” Jonny observes.

“They are willing to set up an agreement for meat and cheese,” Giroux says. “If you go through with it.”

“Well shit, Jon, we’ve gotta do it now,” Patrick says, squaring his shoulders. “What should we say when we get there?”

“Focus on that warm, fuzzy feeling you get when Dr. Toews walks into the room,” Giroux says with a smile.

So the mayor says some stuff, and then Crosby and Giroux respond with some Veentan words but mostly miming and gestures, and then Pat and Jonny wade out into the pool.

“Have you thought about where we’re going for the honeymoon?” Patrick asks, hissing a little as the cold water reaches his groin. “Fair warning, I have killer seasonal allergies so keep an eye on the pollen count when choosing a place.”

“You know,” Jonny says, sloshing forward, “I’ve actually imagined what the moment I exchanged vows with my partner would be like, and at no point was he anything like you.” He stumbles a little bit in the waist-deep water but manages to right himself.

Patrick scoffs, prepared with a comeback, but then it occurs to him--

“Did you just come out to me?” he blurts out.

Jonny freezes for a moment but shakes his head vigorously. “Absolutely not.”

“Hey.” Patrick puts his hands up. “I’m not asking if you’re not telling. Just-- if we do make it back home alive, I wouldn’t mind getting an invite to whatever tacky physics-themed ceremony you plan.”

“Don’t get us all killed out here and I’ll think about it,” Jonny says.

They reach the pillar, squinting to see it against the spray from the waterfall.

“Hands in,” Patrick says, and they run their palms up the column until they find a small opening at shoulder-height.

“And now, some words,” Patrick begins. “Dear Jonny, sometimes, if the mood is right, and the light is right, and I’m not really paying attention, and you’re not really talking… you’re not the most annoying person I’ve ever met.”

Jonny rolls his eyes.

“Dear Patrick,” he begins, “I will admit, off the record, that there are times, usually when I’m in the lab and you’re terrorizing the grunts somewhere, when I think about you finally getting shot on some distant alien world and it-- scares me,” he finishes, voice cracking a little. He meets Patrick’s eyes but just as quickly faces away.

Patrick feels his smile slip away, unsure what happened. “Hey, I’m right here,” he says softly, sliding his hand over in the little compartment and resting his palm on top of Jonny’s. “And if I’m going down,” he says, voice stronger, “you’re going with me, so buckle up.”

Jonny flashes him a smile that gets a B- for effort. “That how it is on SGA-1?”

“It is while I’m in charge,” Patrick says, slapping his hand on Jonny’s before sliding it back. “So… you think it worked?”

Jonny shrugs, and Patrick turns to look back at the shore just as he hears Jonny whimper.

“What--” Patrick is cut off when a sensation, so hot if feels cold, winds down his forearm and to his palm. “Motherfucker!” he screams, trying to pull his hand back.

It won’t budge.

Jonny says something under his breath that Patrick doesn’t totally catch. It sounds French.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck!” Patrick shouts, slapping the side of the column with his free hand. He’s no stranger to pain, but this is like fire in the veins of his wrist, this is burning and freezing and cutting at the same time.

Distantly, he can hear his guys calling for him over the rush of blood in his ears. He makes one more attempt to pull his arm free and staggers back when it pops out of the slot in the pillar.

" _Shit_ ," Jonny whines, cradling his wrist in his other hand. Patrick just stares, because all around Jonny's hand and wrist are thick, black lines, crystalline geometric patterns that end in an Ancient symbol that resembles an X.

He looks down to see the same on his arm.

"It definitely worked," Patrick observes, feeling lightheaded.

Patrick comes to see him in the cabin they've been given for the duration of their stay in Veeta.

"Good news is," Patrick says, flopping down onto his cot, "I've been married more than once on diplomatic missions in the Milky Way and the commitment does not extend beyond the planet."

Jonny takes a beat to stare up at the ceiling, wondering exactly who he pissed off in history to deserve this fate. Maybe the ascended Ancients only pretend to be uninterested in human affairs and are actually playing an elaborate joke on this whole mission. Dr. Jackson had said they were phenomenal dickheads about this kind of stuff.

"First there was no ZPM," Jonny says, "and I was fine with that because we were going to trade for food. Then we had to pretend to be married, and I was willing to go along with that, too." He shifts his head to look at Patrick, who's sitting across the room on the edge of his own cot. "I know what my guys say, but I can be a good sport about stuff." Patrick flicks his eyes up to meet Jonny's gaze and then looks away again. The shadows from the lanterns that light the room are jagged across his face.

"But now," Jonny continues, "I have this awful tattoo and we might actually be magically married, like, Ancient-style -- and they did not do things halfway, Patrick. This could be for keeps.”

“That’s what they said about Eberle and Hall and we fixed that,” Patrick says. He stands up and wipes his hands on his pants. “C’mon, we’re late for our own wedding reception.”

“ _Jesus_ , don’t call it that,” Jonny says, but he swings his legs over the side of the cot and follows Patrick out.

 

* * *

 

Jonny doesn’t understand why the mayor and her advisors are all staring at them as they take their seats at the head table.

“What’s going on?” Patrick whispers to Crosby and Giroux, who share a look.

“To prove that you are unified, you have to share a kiss,” Giroux says, bringing a hand up to rub at the back of his neck.

“Friends kiss here, too,” Crosby interjects, probably noticing the looks on their faces. “It can be a gesture of your friendship instead of any… intent.”

“No, it’s fine,” Patrick says. “So, right here?”

Crosby nods, so Patrick moves into Jonny’s space, resting both hands against his chest. His palms are searing, even through Jonny’s uniform shirt and blouse.

They just stare at each other for a beat before Patrick mutters, “Put your hands on my waist, asshole.”

Jonny does it without thinking, overwhelmed and willing to follow Patrick’s lead. He startles a bit when Patrick slides his hands up, over Jonny’s collarbones and throat, to rest at the back of his head, thumbs in the hollow behind his ears. Patrick tugs him down until their lips brush, light and dry.

Every place they touch feels electric, and Jonny can’t fight the impulse to tighten his hands on Patrick’s hips. Patrick pulls back for a second to lick his lips and then presses in again, smooth, a teasing pressure that has Jonny taking a step towards him before he realizes it.

Patrick scratches his nails down the nape of Jonny’s neck as he moves away, and Jonny has to take a steadying breath as he opens his eyes.

“Good?” Patrick asks, and Jonny fumbles for an answer before he realizes that Patrick’s talking to Crosby and Giroux, who nod. “Then let’s eat!”

Jonny spends the dinner trying not to flinch every time his hand or elbow grazes Patrick’s and ignoring the knowing looks from the mayor. Patrick spends the dinner with his face covered in gravy while Giroux and Geno seem to be having some sort of competition to see who can pack away the most roasted meat. It’s equal parts disgusting and riveting.

A few hours in, a couple of townspeople get up and start dancing to the band, and then Patrick gets up, and Jonny sees Malkin double-check that his POV camera is definitely recording.

Jonny’s contemplating ducking out of the reception and going back to the cabin when Crosby drops into Patrick’s vacated seat next to him.

“Congratulations?” Crosby says, hesitant, and raises his cup. Jonny lightly clinks their glasses together. They’ve only had one drink a piece, but this mead-type stuff is pretty strong.

“Thanks,” Jonny says, taking a sip. “This is not how I thought my marriage would go.”

Sidney shakes his head, leaning back and making an abortive gesture like he was about to put his hands in his pants pockets. Jonny’s not great at social cues, but he’s fast learning Crosby does that whenever he needs to feel in control for a little bit. Jonny does the same thing with peanut butter cups, although that usually results in him hating himself and needing to work out for an extra hour. Maybe he should start with the hands, too.

“A long time ago,” Crosby says, “the governors and their council were the only ones allowed to come here for this ceremony. I mean, that’s a rumor -- we lost a lot of history after every culling. But this holds no bearing back on Earth. It’s a Pegasus galaxy custom.”

Crosby looks shifty. Jonny squints.

“You’re lying to make me feel better,” he finally surmises.

“I am, but as far as you’re concerned, you don’t know that.”

“This isn’t another soul bond thing, is it?” Jonny asks, remembering what Patrick had said about Eberle and Hall. Jonny doesn’t appreciate alien technology that makes him look stupid.

“No. Should be just a regular marriage.” Crosby shrugs, and Jonny looks skyward again. He’s never going to hear the end of this once Sharpy finds out.

 

* * *

 

Seabrook and Keith are waiting for them, arms crossed and looking concerned, when the team arrives back in Atlantis.

“I hear congratulations are in order?” Seabrook starts. Patrick grins, sleazy and open.

“Jonny’s finally gotta let me ride that,” he leers, reaching back to palm Jonny’s ass. Jonny shrugs him off and snorts, unzipping his tac-vest.

Seabrook reaches out and tugs at Patrick’s forearm until he can see part of the tattoo in the gap between Patrick’s sleeve and the cuff of his tactical glove. “Bottom line, are these going to be a problem?” Seabrook asks Crosby.

“Anyone who would recognize it would know that it’s a high honour,” Crosby says, nodding seriously. “Might help with negotiations in the future.”

Keith nods. “Alright, if no one’s dying, we’ll deal with this in the morning. AAR and debrief tomorrow at 0900. Sleep well, Mr. and Mr. Toews-Kane.”

“Kane-Toews. It just sounds better,” Patrick calls back down the corridor.

 

* * *

 

They still don’t have a ZPM, which makes Jonny a little twitchy, but he understands why their missions have turned more diplomatic that exploratory lately. It’s become pretty clear that they’re not going to run across a ZPM any time soon, so they have to start making long-term plans for trade and military support.

“M2X-519,” Patrick says at the next strategic meeting with team leaders. “Best English translation of the name is close to ‘Adirondack,’ and the Veetans said that they are known to have a bountiful harvest. This is a meet-and-greet only, nothing formal. SGA-1 will be primary, and Lieutenant Brown will head up our latest band of Earth’s best and brightest, SGA-6.”

Shaw, sitting next to Brown, gives him a hearty slap on the back.

“SGA-2 will be on standby in case we need an extraction. On an administrative note, the senior team has voted to permanently reassign Dr. Giroux to SGA-2 and Lieutenant Crosby to SGA-1. We’ll reevaluate at the five-mission-mark. Alright,” Pat claps his hands together. “Bring it in, team. On three: _don’t start an intergalactic war!_ ”

No one actually joins him in the chant, but that’s okay. As long as they internalize the message.

 

* * *

 

“Absolutely not,” Patrick says, staring down the Adirondack elders with what he hopes is his most intimidating stare. The rest of his teams are hanging back, at his hand signal, but things could set off at any minute. They haven’t even really made it inside the village proper.

“Why not? Is our prince not up to your standards? He is a fierce warrior and has only seen ten-and-nine moons. He’s very fertile,” the female elder says. She reminds him of Cher, post-Sonny divorce, and seems like the kind of lady Patrick could definitely get down with at a happy hour.

“I’m sure he is-- fertile,” Patrick flounders for a minute. Can guys get pregnant in this universe? “But this sort of thing isn’t common on our planet. The prince’s fertility aside, it’s not appropriate to ask this of one of my men.”

He turns to Lieutenant Brown, but the look Brown is giving the prince is anything _but_ reluctant. If he oogles the prince’s ridiculous body any harder, his eyes are going to fall out.

“Eyes above the neck, soldier,” Patrick snaps. Brown flushes down under his tac vest and stares up at a tree. The prince smirks, hands on his hips. His abs look like they’ve been chiselled straight from a fucking rock. God, what kind of core workout is this kid even _doing?_

“The prophecy was very specific on this point,” the elder says, eyes narrowing. “Propriety has nothing to do with it.”

Patrick feels a slight pressure on his arm just as he opens his mouth to tell her where to stick the prophecy, and he steps back so Crosby can come forward.

“I believe what the Major is saying is that, although he respects your beliefs and the prince’s choice, he is not comfortable asking this of a subordinate. Customs are very different on Atlantis and this sort of thing is considered taboo.”

The female elder and the group behind her give them all considering looks.

“A moment,” she says, and Crosby nods as she turns back to the group.

“That went well,” Jonny mutters to Patrick, huffing when Patrick jams his elbow square in his chest.

“Didn’t help that Lieutenant Brown was eyefucking the shit out of Prince Teyla, or whatever the hell his name is,” Patrick hisses back. This isn’t the first time he’s found himself in a bad situation off-world, diplomatically speaking, but it is one of the first times that backup has been so far away. At least they had allied nations in the Milky Way.

Keith and Seabrook are all about less shooting, more talking these days, but Patrick’s not sure if talking is going to get them out of this.

They came through the gate to a small welcome party, just the ruler’s son, a few village elders and some kind of priest, and it had been going smoothly. Patrick noticed that the priest was eyeing Brown just a little too intently, watching the way the lieutenant interacted with Patrick, but he figured it was just a cultural difference thing. Then the priest pulled an elder aside, pulled the prince aside, and suddenly Brownie and this prince are some kind of prophecy, no way around it, mated for life. It’s nothing Patrick hasn’t heard before, but they just _will not_ let it drop. Pat asks a lot from his guys but he’s not prepared to ask Brown to fuck some stranger and maybe get married.

“What do you think the penalties for a flat refusal will be?” he asks Crosby.

Crosby shrugs. “Probably nothing physical, but it would be the end of any trade possibilities. I, uh,” he reaches back and rubs a palm over the nape of his neck, “I’ve heard prophecies like this before.”

He glances over at Geno before continuing. “Look, life under the Wraith is hard. Whether this priest thought he had a genuine answer to the prophecy or just thought that he needed one and we’re a good excuse, it’s real for these people. To back out now would be to sever all ties.”

“I will not allow them to push one of my guys into this,” Patrick says with conviction. “So find me another solution.”

“I have something in mind,” Crosby says. “But I’d need Geno’s help.”

The downturn of Crosby’s mouth gives Patrick some idea of exactly what he needs Geno for, but a quick look at Geno tells Pat that he’s willing to do whatever it takes.

“Whatever you need, I’ll back you up,” Patrick says, and Crosby gives him a tight nod. They wait another minute before the elders turn back to them.

“We recognize your objections, and respect them,” the one they’ve been speaking to says. “But there is little room for interpretation on this matter. Two rulers from different worlds must come together to create a new eternity.”

“There might be another option on that, actually,” Crosby says, and all eyes turn to him.

Well, fuck.

 

* * *

 

“I’m not a prince,” Sidney says, but the elders are shoving them towards a huge mountain with an ornate doorway carved into the rock face. Geno personally doesn’t enjoy the look of the mountain any more than Sidney does, but Sidney asked for his help and he won’t back out.

“You are a Commander of the Scotians and a Prince of Voin. And he is… foreign.”

“Wow, their standards have lowered since ten minutes ago,” Toews mutters and Geno’s jaw sets.

“I mean, my family was important but we didn’t have a title," Sidney continues. Kane gives Sidney a _look_ , and Sidney shrugs. “If we do this, I don’t want it invalidated later on technical grounds.”

“You are a prince in our eyes,” the elder says.

“That’s… a very nice sentiment, actually,” Kane says. He catches Geno’s eye and does the subtle version of their _you okay?_ hand gesture.

Geno mirrors it and Kane nods. Strangely enough, he is okay with whatever it takes to keep his team safe. He just hopes there’s a bed in there -- his cot is really uncomfortable and he doesn’t sleep well most nights.

“There is much you don’t understand, Sidney, but understand this. It is fated,” says the frail priest clutching Sidney’s arm with a surprising show of strength -- enough to make him wince. Geno’s silent on the other side.

“How long is this gonna take?” Kane asks.

“However long it takes,” Prince Teyla says, walking far too closely to Lieutenant Brown. Kane grabs the back of Brown’s tac-vest to slow him down and positions himself between the two. He maneuvers Brown to the outskirts of the group and wags his finger.

They arrive at the entrance, and the priest holding Sidney reaches for Geno and brings them together. The yawning chasm inside is murky black, like there might be enough light once their eyes adjust.

“Be one, Sidney and Malkin. Be one, and emerge as one.”

“Wait, _what_? They’re not gonna come out conjoined, are they? That was not part of the deal!” is the last thing Geno hears before they’re shoved inside and the doors slam behind them.

 

* * *

 

So Sidney knows they've been dancing around this for a while, and if you can't give into your baser instincts while being held captive by hostile alien civilizations, when can you? He had discipline, he had training, and he gave up a lot to be top of his class at the academy. He understands why these people so desperately want him to be the sign they’ve been looking for, because that’s what he was to his own people -- a symbol of hope for Scotia, that there was someone strong enough to stand up to the Wraith.

But all that training and accomplishment still ended with everyone dead, so maybe it’s not all it was cracked up to be. Maybe it never really mattered, maybe anything he did never mattered -- those are the thoughts that jolt him awake some nights, that lead to him spending hours in the gym as the few guys hanging around at that time send him worried looks.

Point is, Sidney is not about denying himself things anymore. He knows that that control lives inside him, ready to be called upon, but maybe it doesn’t need to be out all the time. Maybe he needs to start taking things he wants before someone else takes them away.

When they’re thrown in the mating chambers, to save the team, to save the mission, another thing Sidney’s done out of a sense of _duty_ , all he can think about is how Geno said yes without even having to know the plan -- just because Sidney asked him.

So he doesn’t force himself to ignore the way Geno is looking everywhere except at him or the big cot, the way Geno isn’t afraid but is sort of nervous, and he does what he’s been trained to do: he takes the lead.

“Are they wrong? About us being fated?” he asks, and Geno’s eyes snap up to his and hold. Sidney doesn’t look away, not sure he could, and Geno inches closer until he’s right in front. Sidney can smell his sweat, the weird scent of the washing powder, the layer of ozone and strangeness from the ring of the ancestors. It’s comforting, familiar, and he wants Geno to move closer.

He’s tired of not having anything, of losing _everything_.

Geno studies his face, until he reaches out a steady hand to wrap around Sidney’s bicep and -- _oh_. It’s one thing to know, academically, how big Geno is, even to spar with him and wrestle on the mats, to watch his hands move over the stock of the P-90 in range practice. But it’s another thing entirely to feel those hands on himself, to be pulled against Geno’s chest as Geno looms over him.

“No,” Geno says after a long minute, “Is good choice. You think?”

Sidney lets the smile that spreads across his face be just as filthy as he wants. Geno's eyes narrow and then he nods, sharply. He squeezes Sidney's arm one more time and then Sidney doesn't even realize he's moving until he's face down in the pile of blankets on the cot, and Geno's standing over him. His fingers clench in the scratchy fabric and he breathes, _in and out._

"They watching?" Geno says. Sidney braces his hands under him and pushes up enough to look over his shoulder.

"Dunno," he rasps, so Geno slaps him across the backs of his thighs. Sidney jerks, away from the hit and then back up to Geno. "Maybe," he amends.

"You wish?" Geno asks. Sidney spreads his legs to brace his knees against the cot and push up so Geno slaps his ass this time, right across the broadest swell. Sidney definitely pushes into that one, bowing his back until his chest brushes the bed, mussing some of the blankets. "You wish they watch?"

"No," Sidney’s voice catches as he twists around to rest his forehead on the cot. "This is all mine."

 

* * *

 

Geno never thought the day would come where he’s locked in an alien mating chamber with the person -- with the _man_ \-- that’s consumed most of his thoughts and wank bank material, spread out open and wanting on a huge bed. He’s not one for looking a gift horse in the mouth, and orgasms look imminent so he just rolls with it. Let it never be said Evgeni Vladimirovich Malkin isn’t capable of being graceful under pressure.

"Thought maybe not want," Geno says, shuffling onto the cot and knee-walking until the tops of his thighs bump the back of Sid's. "Maybe want with Johnson."

“Jack?" he sounds disbelieving.

"Master Sergeant." Geno's not stupid, he knows the rank and power mean at least _something_ to a lot of guys. He would have sucked his DI's dick in basic.

"Don't care. No," Sid says, and the little laugh that follows is punctuated by a high gasp when Geno pushes his palms up Sid's back on the sides and then down again, stopping at the cut of Sid's hips, after the narrowing of his waist but before the swell of his ass. He claps his hands once against the firmness of Sid's body and then pulls, jerking Sid back a few inches. It's a perfect spot for gripping, and Sid turns his head to the side again so Geno can see his face. His eyes are half-lidded and burning, glassy, and his eyelashes flutter just enough when he tries to shift forward and Geno pulls him back by his hips.

"How I do it," Geno says, digging his fingers in and pulling back hard enough and suddenly enough that Sid's knees slide out from under him and he has to scramble to keep from falling on his face. "If for real, this how I do it."

He thrusts forward, lining up their hips, and he knows Sid can feel him, hard and heavy and hot, even through the uniform pants and the scratch of canvas. Sid pushes back and Geno hooks his hands into the belt loops of Sid's pants, pushing him away before pulling again. The slap of their bodies is muffled by the clothing but still unmistakable, still obscene.

"I knew you'd be good at this," Sid gasps out, bracing himself on his right hand and sliding the left down to cup himself. "Too nice, big hands... big all over."

“You think about me lot? Think of me when touch?” Geno’s losing his English. Sid’s body feels amazing under his hands, all hotly coiled tightness, and his ass is rubbing against Geno’s crotch. He wants to be naked, wants Sid spread out under him so he can take his time.

“Y-yes. Can’t help it. You’re everywhere,” Sid’s breath hitches as Geno’s fingers untuck his blouse and slide against the heated skin beneath. He moans, pitching forward into his pillow and Geno grins. This won’t take long.

And it doesn’t.

“Want Sid too. Can’t touch, but-- _want_ ,” Geno groans. Sid whimpers and gets a hand inside his fatigues as Geno’s cock moves between his ass cheeks, the friction building into the perfect storm of pain and pleasure. He comes hard, curling over Sid as Sid follows him over, his knees sliding wide across the bed, spread open and weak.

“Fuck,” Geno says after a minute or two, pulling himself upright. There’s cloths by the bed and he tosses one as Sid so they can do a shitty clean up job.

Just as they’re tossing the cloths aside and doing their pants back up, the doors explodes open and Geno startles as Sid drops into a defensive stance.

It’s only Kane, looking wild as he races inside, Jonny and SGA-6 following up the rear. The elders are behind them, looking smug. “Sid? Geno? You guys okay?” Kane heaves, cheeks red. Jonny’s clicking at his tablet, looking smug.

The elder with the dreads comes up and stands by Kane, her arms crossed.

“They have begun the process quite nicely. Very well, you’ve held up your end, now we will hold up ours. Open trade agreements -- your sea life for our grain.”

Geno finishes doing up his belt and watches as Sid strides toward the door, brushing past Kane as he goes.

"I'm gonna pretend like I didn't hear that, for the sake of the report and my sanity. No fucking on missions, you know the rules!" Kane yells at him as Geno follows Sid out, smirking.

 

* * *

 

Jordan’s waiting when the teams return, arms crossed and looking intimidating. Well, trying to. His baby face and gap teeth don’t really lend to the intimidating factor, although having Taylor behind him helps a little.

“No sex off world!” he yells as the last of SGA-6 troops through the gate and Bollig closes the wormhole. Everyone groans.

“How many seminars have I held explaining in several languages about babies on base?” he snaps, following Major Kane as they head to the armoury.

“It wasn’t me this time, and Galchenyuk wasn’t anywhere near the mating chamber.”

“Oh,” Jordan says, losing some of his bluster. “Who was?”

Kane turns to glare at Lieutenant Brown, who’s stripping out of his gear as fast as humanly possible, the back of his neck bright red.

“Thanks to Lieutenant Quixote here, we had to sacrifice Sid and Geno.”

“I haven’t given Commander Crosby any condoms, though.” Jordan droops sadly. He’d petitioned SGC to be given a bigger transport allowance so he could get more condoms and lube through. He also had HIV tests and enough gynecological testing materials to last for a few years. He’s nothing if not thorough and very prepared.

“I’m sure Geno has enough,” Kane says dryly, hanging up his tac vest and logging in his weapons.

“But _condoms_ ,” Jordan says, and Taylor claps him on the shoulder.

“C’mon Ebby, your health clinic starts in a half-hour. I think we’ve determined there’ll be no babies anytime soon,” he says. Jordan nods and follows Taylor out, disappointed.

He’d prepared a speech on safe sex and everything.

 

* * *

 

After they get back to Atlantis and Geno logs all his gear and sits through the debrief -- which sees him sat as far as humanly possible from Sid, probably through some manipulation from Kane, who seems to think Geno’s going to hump Sid on the table or something -- he decides to go for a jog to sort through everything that’s just happened.

He’s still stuck on Sid telling him how much he wanted Geno. It was surprising, and he might’ve been hoping for it, but to be given what he’s been thinking about for weeks now is something else entirely.

He finds himself at the end of his jog, still as lacking on a conclusion as he was before. He’d made peace with the fact he liked guys more than he should, but there’s liking guys and there’s liking… whatever Sid is. An alien. That’s the crux of it. Somewhere along the line, Sid wormed his way inside Geno and he doesn’t really know how to respond to it.

How would he explain Sid to his parents, if he ever got to go home again? Saying he’s from _far away_ would only cut it for so long.

He’s warming down along the pier and stops by the gym, movement inside catching his notice. He realises it’s Sid and Jack, having their daily sparring session. Whenever he goes for a run, he’d started timing it so he could be around to stare at Sid grappling -- the jealousy of Jack having his hands on Sid so intimately like that had always pushed him to want to do stupid shit.

Sid’s got the upper hand, Jack in a chokehold and he looks flushed and victorious, grinning even as Jack flips them both and gets him in an armbar. Geno’s breathing hard from the run, but his chest is tight watching Sid -- competent, reassured, the strength and fire inside him. It doesn’t matter where he came from, or how they ended up here.

What matters is they are here, and he wants Sid naked above or below him, calling out his name and wanting him. _Only_ him.

He heads back to his quarters and digs through his ruck, coming up empty handed. Condoms and lube weren’t on the approved packing list, but Dr. Eberle has started a vicious campaign for preventing unplanned pregnancy and regularly harasses people about their sexual habits. Geno’s steered well clear of the med labs, but now it looks like he’ll need to pay him a visit.

When he arrives, Dr. Eberle is busy with Toews on a bed, loudly complaining about a migraine.

“Jonathan, you probably have a migraine from all the frowning you do. Try a smile for once,” Dr. Eberle says, brandishing a yellow lolly at him. Toews yelps and slaps it out his hand.

“Are you _trying_ to kill me?”

“It’s not lemon flavoured, it’s--”

“Yellow always means lemon!”

Geno takes the opportunity to head to the huge barrels set up off to the side, one with ‘Lubricant’ and one with ‘Baby Preventers’ stuck above them. The handwriting is that of a child. Considering Dr. Eberle is barely out of diapers, it’s unsurprising. He grabs a bunch of packets from both, shoving them in his pockets and sneaking back out. Success.

Now to figure out how to lure Sid to his quarters and keep him there long enough for them to get naked. He’s deep in thought by the time he thinks _On_ at his door, and startles badly when he looks up and sees Sid standing at his windows, looking out at the fading sunset.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” Sid says, not turning from the window. Geno’s eyes zero in on the sweatpants he’s in -- they’re a touch too small, hugging his ass and thighs a little more than they should. Geno doesn’t mind.

“Uhm,” Geno says, coughing. The doors shut behind him and he toews off his boots as Sid turns around and comes to sit on the side of his cot.

“So, we had sex in a mating chamber,” Sid says slowly, and Geno nods. He pats the bed and Geno sits down next to him, his pockets crinkling from the gratuitous supplies.

“What’s that?” Sid asks, and Geno groans but reaches into his pockets and pulls out the handfuls. Sid bursts into giggles and Geno doesn’t think he’ll ever not be red.

“Guess we both had the same idea. I waited until Dr. Eberle was treating Sergeant Kessel for her hives so he wouldn’t give me the safe sex speech,” Sid confesses, reaching into his pockets and pulling out a few packets himself. Geno shakes his head and palms his face.

“We dumb,” he says. When he can bring himself to look up, Sid’s leaned in a lot closer than before and his lips are red.

“We’re safe,” Sid corrects, and closes the gap.

 

* * *

It had been Sidney’s first stop to get supplies. They never used condoms on Scotia; never needed them as fertility rates were low and people were scared to have children with the culls. Besides, his focus was on being a warrior. If he survived that, he had planned on starting a family with someone, eventually. It was never the kind of priority he had time for.

It’s their first kiss and it’s a little awkward, Geno’s head at a weird angle and Sidney’s neck protesting how they’re sitting, so he pushes Geno down on his cot and lies on top. Geno seems to be enjoying this turn of events, given how Sidney can feel him getting hard against his hip.

“Sid,” Geno huffs out, and Sidney pulls back a little to stare at him. His mouth is red and slick, and Sidney wants to leave marks everywhere.

“What?”

“I… what you want, Sid?”

Sidney frowns. He’d thought it was pretty obvious what he wanted. Maybe this is Geno’s way of letting Sidney know he’s nervous, or wants Sidney to take the lead.

“I-- what do _you_ want, Geno?” Sidney tries instead. Geno angles his hips to grind them together, and Sidney’s vision goes blurry.

“Want you, Sid. Don’t care, just-- _want_.”

Getting naked is his priority right now, so he rears back to give Geno enough room to undo his fatigues. Sidney’s sliding his shirt off and smirks as Geno’s jaw drops and he swears liberally in Russian. Sidney is shorter and stockier than Geno, but Geno’s taller and it works; the push and pull of each other coming together in harmony.

Geno peels off his boxers, flinging them somewhere in the darkened room and Sidney does the same, letting Geno drink him in and doing the same -- all the nameless scars scattering their bodies. It takes a bit of coordination, the cot not really built for two full-grown men, but Sidney wants Geno inside him and he’ll be damned if he’s not getting exactly what he wants from this scenario.

Geno takes forever to open him up, one hand angled between Sidney’s legs, the other moving from his cock to his nipples to his jaw, moving him just right so Geno can kiss him stupid. It shouldn’t be romantic -- Sidney isn’t romantic, but he knows that this isn’t just fucking. This is special. _Geno_ is special.

When Geno sinks home, eyes squeezed tight and fingers gripping at Sidney’s hips, Sidney’s face pressed into the pillow -- he wanted to see Geno, be allowed to kiss and be kissed, but it’s been forever since this happened last and it’s uncomfortable, so -- and he feels Geno, a solid line of warmth at his back. It’s everything he wants.

He feels embarrassed for how quickly this is going to go, because he’s wanted this for a while now, and apparently so has Geno, so he just focuses on working him through it as best he can. They come within seconds of each other, Sidney’s fingers digging into the sheets and Geno biting down hard on Sidney’s neck, unable to stifle the moans spilling from him. It’s so fucking good, mindblowingly so.

Sidney sprawls on top of Geno once he pulls out and disposes of the condom, chest heaving as the mess cools on Sidney’s body. Geno’s dick is twitching from the aftershocks and Sidney smiles to himself.

“What does this mean, now?” he hears himself ask, and Geno shrugs beneath him.

“You want boyfriends?”

Sidney frowns. “What’s ...boyfriends?”

“Uhm. Partner… with feeling, sex, intimate person? What you call on Voin?” Geno asks. Sidney thinks for a beat or two.

“ _Paren'_ is the closest thing I can think of. There were lots of male partnerships in Scotia.”

Geno’s jaw is slack, and he shakes his head.

“We use same word, in Russia. _Paren'_ mean boyfriend. Same as _voin_ mean warrior.”

Sidney settles himself against Geno further, reaching for the tissues to clean his stomach and ass. He needs to shower, needs to let Geno up so he can attend to his own duties. He just… he doesn’t want to.

“Stay,” he says instead. Geno pulls Sidney in closer.

“Okay.”

**Author's Note:**

> The title comes from [this cadence.](http://youtu.be/Tv_k6rW9ec0?t=2m37s)
> 
> Warnings -- The first chapter didn’t really contain much in the way of firefights, abductions and people getting blown out the sky but it’s coming. Warnings will come with specific chapters. But, this is set in space with killer aliens (and nice aliens!) and makes mention to secondary character deaths, PTSD and other war-related physical and emotional injuries. 
> 
> As for supporting information, [HERE!](https://www.dropbox.com/s/gineeag6zgwfj0z/SGAU%20details.zip) is a zip file if you’re not familiar with the Stargate universe, or want to know more about the fic. Inside is a comprehensive appendix of key terms, a chain of command flow chart and a breakdown of the gate teams.
> 
> Contact deets! 
> 
> matchbox:  
> [tumblr](http://a-lo-hecho-pecho.tumblr.com) / [twitter](https://twitter.com/vitaeheuheu)
> 
> cathedralhearts:  
> [tumblr](http://dumbpigeons.tumblr.com) / [twitter](https://twitter.com/dumbpigeons)


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